The Citadel burned for three days before the flames finally gave way to smoke. What was once a fortress of terror became a silhouette of ruin, black and hollow against the pale dawn.
Kael stood on the ridge, staring at what remained. The emberblade was gone, but his hand still ached where he had held it, as though the weapon had left a mark beneath his skin.
Lyra approached, boots crunching over brittle earth. Her cloak was torn, her hair streaked with ash, but her voice carried that same sharpness.
"You should rest," she said. "You haven't slept since—"
"Since I killed him," Kael finished, not looking at her.
Lyra didn't correct him. She didn't need to.
Below, the survivors of the Warlord's army—those who had thrown down their weapons, those who had fled—now clustered like frightened animals, unsure if they were prisoners, refugees, or simply ghosts waiting to be buried.
Among them, Tarin moved, barking orders, his young face streaked with grime but his posture firm. He had chosen his side, and now he wore that choice like armor.
"Word will spread," Lyra said. "The villages will know. The people will celebrate."
Kael's eyes remained on the black horizon. "Will they? Or will they just find someone else to fear?"
---
By midday, they had moved to what remained of a watchtower—half its stones collapsed, but the upper level intact enough to shelter them.
Solen sat in the corner, scrolls unfurled on the floor. His fingers traced faded ink, lips moving silently as he studied.
"You're still reading those?" Lyra asked.
Solen nodded. "There's something here. Something about the ember's origin. Something that doesn't match what Seris told us."
Kael turned his gaze to Seris, who stood apart, watching the horizon with those amber eyes that seemed to see too much.
"You knew this wasn't over," Kael said. It wasn't a question.
Seris's smile was faint, unreadable. "Endings are illusions, Kael. Ashes feed the soil. Soil feeds the roots. Roots birth fire again."
Her words hung in the air like smoke.
---
That night, when the others slept, Kael found himself unable to close his eyes. The shard Seris had given him in the Citadel sat in his palm, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.
At first, he thought he imagined the voice.
Kael.
He froze.
Kael.
It wasn't a whisper. It wasn't the emberblade's scream. It was softer. Almost… familiar.
He turned the shard over. The glow brightened.
From the darkness, Seris's voice came, calm and quiet. "It speaks to you already, doesn't it?"
Kael looked up sharply. She was sitting by the wall, watching him with that same unreadable calm.
"What is this?" he demanded. "What's in this shard?"
Seris tilted her head. "A piece of a truth you're not ready for."
Kael stood, anger flaring. "You've been guiding me since we met—and you're still keeping secrets?"
Seris rose too, unshaken. "Would you have listened if I'd told you everything?"
The shard pulsed brighter, as if amused by their tension.
---
By dawn, the smoke from the Citadel had thinned, and the horizon was tinged with color for the first time in weeks.
Tarin approached Kael, his face serious. "There's movement on the roads. Caravans. Survivors. Word's already spreading. People are coming."
"Coming here?" Lyra asked, brow furrowed.
"To the Citadel," Tarin said. "To you."
Kael didn't answer.
He looked down at the shard in his hand.
The glow was stronger now.
And in its light, he thought—for just a moment—he saw a shape. Not the Warlord. Not Seris.
Something older.
Something waiting.
The Citadel burned for three days before the flames surrendered to smoke. When the fires finally guttered out, only a blackened skeleton remained—a jagged outline against the pale morning sky. The fortress that had cast its shadow over the land for decades was now nothing more than a ruin.
Kael stood on the ridge overlooking the wreckage, the wind tugging at the edges of his cloak. The emberblade was gone—shattered into light and ash when he drove it into the stone—but his hand still ached as though the weapon had etched itself into his bones. He flexed his fingers, half-expecting to see embers glowing beneath the skin.
Lyra approached from behind, her boots crunching over brittle earth. Her cloak was torn and stained, her dagger still streaked with blood that no one had bothered to clean. Despite everything, she still carried herself with that sharp-edged grace, her presence as steady as the dagger at her hip.
"You should rest," she said, brushing ash from her hair. "You haven't slept since—"
"Since I killed him," Kael finished for her. The words were heavy, and saying them aloud didn't ease the weight.
Lyra studied him for a moment, then nodded once. "Since you ended him," she corrected.
Behind them, the ragged remains of their group moved about, tending wounds and gathering what little they could salvage. A strange quiet hung over the camp—not the relief of survival, not exactly, but the stunned silence that follows a storm too powerful to name.
Tarin, the young soldier who had once worn the Warlord's crimson insignia, was already barking orders to the scattered survivors who had thrown down their arms. His armor was still cracked, his face streaked with grime, but he wore his newfound defection like a second skin.
"Stack the shields there," Tarin said, gesturing toward a half-collapsed wall. "We'll need them if anyone decides to come looking for trouble."
Kael watched him for a moment, then turned back to the horizon.
"Word will spread," Lyra said quietly, following his gaze. "The villages will hear. They'll celebrate."
Kael's jaw tightened. "Will they? Or will they just find someone else to fear?"
---
By midday, they had moved to what remained of a watchtower—a ruin, but with enough stone walls intact to offer some shelter from the chill.
Solen sat cross-legged in one corner, the satchel of scrolls open around him. Parchment littered the ground, the faded ink twitching under his fingers as if eager to be read.
"You're still at those?" Lyra asked, kneeling beside him.
Solen didn't look up. "They don't match," he muttered. "What Seris told us about the ember, about the blade—some of it's here, but there are… gaps. Stories that don't line up."
Kael's eyes slid toward Seris, who stood at the broken archway like a sentinel. The sunlight caught the edge of her amber eyes, turning them to molten gold.
"You knew this wasn't over," Kael said.
Seris didn't turn to him, but her faint smile curved. "Endings are illusions, Kael. Ashes feed the soil. Soil feeds the roots. And roots," she glanced back at him, "birth fire again."
Her words clung to him like smoke.
---
That night, when the others slept, Kael found himself unable to do the same. The shard Seris had given him in the Citadel lay in his palm, its faint glow pulsing like a heartbeat.
At first, he thought he imagined the voice.
Kael.
He froze.
The whisper was softer than the emberblade's scream, but sharper somehow—an echo that pressed against the edges of his mind.
He turned the shard over. The glow brightened.
"Can't sleep?"
Seris's voice broke the silence. She sat near the wall, hood down, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her gaze found the shard immediately, as though she could feel its hum through the stone.
"It speaks to you already, doesn't it?" she asked, her tone unsettlingly calm.
Kael looked down at the shard, then back at her. "What is this thing?"
Seris tilted her head, studying him. "A piece of a truth you aren't ready to hold."
Anger flared in his chest. "You've been guiding me since the day we met—whispering half-answers, pointing me where you wanted me to go. And you're still keeping secrets?"
Seris's expression didn't change, but there was a weight to her silence before she finally spoke.
"Would you have listened if I told you everything?"
Kael stared at her, the shard's light flickering across his face.
He wanted to throw it. To cast it into the ruins and let it vanish in the ash. But when his hand moved to do so, his fingers wouldn't release it.
The shard pulsed again.
Kael.
The voice was softer this time. Almost… familiar.
---
By dawn, the smoke from the Citadel had thinned, and color tinged the horizon for the first time in weeks.
Tarin approached Kael, his face serious. "There's movement on the roads. Caravans. Survivors. Word's spreading fast. People are coming."
Lyra frowned. "Coming here?"
Tarin nodded. "To the Citadel. To you."
Kael said nothing, but his eyes drifted back to the ruins.
The shard in his palm glowed faintly in the morning light.
---
They reached the first village at midday—if it could still be called a village. The buildings were half-burned, the streets littered with rubble, but people emerged cautiously as they approached.
A boy no older than ten stared at Kael from behind a fence, his eyes wide, his hand clutching a broken wooden toy.
"Is it true?" the boy asked.
Kael paused. "What's true?"
"That you killed him," the boy whispered. "The Fire King."
Kael hesitated. "I did."
The boy stared for a moment longer, then ran back to the house, calling for his mother.
Within an hour, word had spread through the village. Some bowed when they saw Kael, murmuring blessings or thanks. Others only watched with guarded eyes, as if waiting for him to become what they feared the Warlord had been.
Lyra muttered under her breath, "They don't know what to make of you."
"Neither do I," Kael said quietly.
---
By the time they left, they had been offered bread, water, and more questions than answers.
As they walked, Tarin fell into step beside Kael. "They look at you like you're a savior," he said. "But some of them… they looked at you like you're another tyrant waiting to happen."
Kael didn't answer right away. His fingers closed around the shard in his pocket.
"What do you think?" Kael asked finally.
Tarin hesitated. "I think…" He glanced at the shard's faint glow. "I think power like that always makes people nervous."
Kael said nothing, but the shard pulsed once, and the voice whispered again.
Kael.
---
By nightfall, they made camp by a blackened stream. The group huddled close, but even the fire felt cold.
Solen sat with his scrolls again, frustration clear on his young face.
"I found something," he said suddenly. "Something about the ember. About what came before it."
Kael turned toward him. "What?"
Solen hesitated, eyes flicking to Seris.
"Say it," Kael pressed.
Solen swallowed. "The emberblade wasn't the first weapon. It was… a fragment. A shard of something older. Something called the Heart of Cinders."
Kael's hand tightened around the shard. Its glow seemed to answer the name.
Seris's face betrayed no surprise.
"You knew," Kael accused.
Seris met his eyes, unflinching. "Would you have fought the Warlord if you knew there was worse?"
---
Sleep didn't come that night either.
Kael sat alone, the shard in his palm, the whisper in his head growing clearer.
It wasn't just saying his name anymore.
It was calling.
And deep down, Kael feared what might answer.