The Boy Who Called Himself Flameborn
They called him Arin.
No surname. No sigil. No house. Just a flame-shaped scar curling down one side of his jaw, and eyes too bright to belong to a peasant.
In the Lower Wards of Myrrhold, he stood atop a broken cart, his voice loud and raw with belief.
"They left you to rot," he shouted, "but the Fire King did not! He bled for this city! And now his fire burns in me!"
Some laughed.
Some threw stones.
But many listened.
And more returned the next day.
Whispers spread like sparks in wind. "He survived Kael's purge." "He bears the brand." "He dreams in flame."
Aureon knew propaganda when he saw it.
But what bothered him wasn't the boy's claim.
It was the feeling—as if something in the air had shifted.
As if Kael's departure hadn't ended the war.
But restarted it.
Rhena's Doubt
Rhena rode alone now.
Not by choice, but by necessity.
The northern clans whispered behind her back—about Kael, about the Leviathan, about the sword no longer in her hand. They wondered if she was still Flameforged… or just another girl playing at war.
She didn't care.
She still wore her armor. She still bore Kael's mark.
And when she stood beneath the crescent moon, she heard voices.
One, especially.
"Why are you following a ghost, Rhena?"
It was the wind again—or something in it.
But she turned sharply, hand on blade.
"You burned everything down to save us," she whispered. "Now I have to decide if I rebuild it…"
She paused.
"…or burn what's left."
The Deadspire Breathes
Kael did not sleep.
He sat at the edge of the obsidian pool, watching his reflection flicker and twist.
The Darksword no longer spoke in words.
Now it was in memories.
Each time he blinked, he saw blood. Each time he breathed, he heard screams. The dead weren't screaming at him anymore.
They were screaming through him.
He gritted his teeth.
"This isn't guilt," he growled. "It's manipulation."
"You need me."
The voice was his own.
But older. Colder. Hungrier.
He stood, fists clenched, and screamed, "I don't!"
The fire erupted around him, bright and violent. For a moment, the entire Deadspire trembled—ash curling into the air like smoke from a newborn volcano.
Something beneath the black glass cracked.
The sword was still there.
Still waiting.
Still his.
The Hunter
In the west, a figure known only as Solen moved through the border towns.
He bore the mark of the Seared Eye—a mercenary order believed extinct. His armor was stitched with threads of gold and bone, and his blades hummed with energy stolen from other realms.
He asked only one question in every village:
"Where did the Fire King fall?"
No one knew.
But someone always gave him a direction.
And he always left corpses behind him.
He wasn't searching for Kael out of loyalty. Or vengeance.
He was hunting the Darksword.
To wear it.
To claim it.
To burn everything with it.
Old Gods, New Chains
Aureon knelt before the last surviving Seer of the Lightward.
The man was blind, draped in linen, and smelled faintly of wax and smoke.
"The boy," Aureon asked. "Is he real?"
The Seer didn't respond immediately. He only dipped a finger in melted candle wax and traced a circle on the floor.
"Not real," he said at last. "But not false."
Aureon frowned. "What does that mean?"
"He is not Kael's blood. But he carries Kael's weight."
"That's impossible."
The Seer's blind eyes turned toward him. "What's impossible is thinking fire forgets its own spark. This boy is not the heir…"
He paused.
"…he's the warning."
The Leviathan Returns
Beneath the surface of the Bleeding Sea, something ancient stirred.
Its eye opened slowly, glowing through the brine.
The Leviathan had been bound. Chained by Kael's final act.
But power does not stay caged forever.
A crack split through the rune-stones at the bottom of the sea.
The beast twitched.
And in Myrrhold, hundreds of people collapsed at once, blood seeping from their eyes.
The world had forgotten the Leviathan's true name.
It was not a creature.
It was a curse.
Kael's Choice
Kael stood at the peak of the Deadspire.
The Darksword hovered in front of him now, no longer in a scabbard, no longer needing a hand.
It pulsed like a heart.
And then it spoke.
"You are mine."
Kael shook his head.
"No," he said, louder. "Not anymore."
"You think you can walk away from me?"
"Yes."
He stepped forward—and plunged both hands into the black glass.
The sword screamed.
Fire erupted.
Kael screamed too—but did not let go.
And then…
Silence.
The obsidian shattered.
The sword fell.
And Kael walked away.
Burned. Scarred. But free.