The ground trembled beneath Vaelrik's boots.
Not from battle. Not from storm. From Skarn.
The Iron Howler stalked the edge of the scorched valley, each step cracking the earth beneath its iron-plated limbs. Its skull, still branded with Vaelrik's mark, glowed faintly in the ashlight. Restless. Unsettled.
Vaelrik stood alone at the center of the field, watching.
Behind him, the Vaulting Gate flickered.
What had once split the sky with roaring flame now pulsed unsteady, like a dying fire clinging to embers. Vaelrik felt the pull in his bones, the warning beneath his skin.
The Vaulting needed more.
The Sovereign Brand on his palm throbbed. He curled his fingers into a fist.
Skarn loosed a low growl, deep and guttural. It wasn't anger. It was tension. The realm was breaking beneath their feet.
One Writhe wasn't enough. One crown couldn't sustain the Gate.
Vaelrik turned from the beast and walked toward the horizon, smoke curling around him. Blood still stained the field, thick with the stink of death and scorched steel. The Harriers lay where they'd fallen. He didn't spare them a glance.
He had another crown to claim.
---
By nightfall, he reached the old shrine.
It stood crooked among dead trees and blackened stone, a ruin half-devoured by time. The air was heavy, filled with a stillness that clung like cobwebs. Vaelrik pushed through its shattered doors, stepping into a place that smelled of soot and forgotten things.
Faded carvings lined the walls. Writhe, etched in stone... some winged, some clawed, all monstrous. The dust stirred at his passage, disturbed for the first time in decades.
One carving drew him forward: a coiled drake, jaws open, wings of fire carved in bold, harsh strokes. Scorch marks lingered on the stone as if the image itself had burned.
Valgrin.
The name rose in his mind like flame. The Sovereign Brand burned hot on his skin.
He knelt before the carving, hand pressed against the cold stone. The world tilted.
Visions surged... lava rivers carving the earth, skies choked with ash, and at the center, Valgrin, massive and ancient, bound in molten chains that hissed and snapped.
The Furnace Coil.
Vaelrik gritted his teeth, forcing the vision to fade. The Vaulting was speaking. Demanding. He felt it in his marrow... if he didn't crown again soon, the Gate would collapse. Skarn's bond alone couldn't hold it.
He rose, fingers tracing the fire-worn lines of Valgrin's image.
"You're next," he murmured.
He turned to the shrine's center, where a broken altar stood beneath a collapsed roof. Once, it had held offerings. Chains lay scattered around it, old symbols of subjugation.
Vaelrik spat.
"No chains. Just crowns."
He walked out into the night, the stars drowned in ash above.
---
The journey south was long and bitter.
Days bled together in silence and shadow. Skarn followed like a wraith, massive and unyielding, its breath misting the air with every growl. The land grew harsher with each step... trees blackened and dead, streams dry and cracked. Even the birds had fled.
At night, Vaelrik slept fitfully. The Vaulting pressed against his mind, a constant hum of power barely held at bay. Dreams burned with images of fire, of a drake whose gaze could melt stone.
By the fourth dawn, the sky was red.
The heat rose in waves, shimmering across the blackened ground. Volcanic stone crunched underfoot, sharp and hot. In the distance, rivers of molten rock wound through canyons, glowing veins of living fire.
They had reached the Furnace Coil.
Vaelrik stood atop a jagged cliff, gazing down into the crater. Lava churned below, casting the world in hellish light. And there, coiled at the heart of the inferno, lay Valgrin.
The Embermaw Drake.
It breathed slowly, each exhale rippling the molten lake. Its body was vast, scales like obsidian glass shot through with veins of magma. Chains... ancient, rusted, some snapped... hung from its limbs, half-submerged in the lava. With every breath, the fire shifted, drawn toward it as if it fed on flame.
Vaelrik crouched low, watching.
"Time to crown fire," he whispered.
Skarn growled low beside him.
The hunt had begun.
They descended at dusk.
Ash fell in slow spirals, cloaking Vaelrik's shoulders and gathering in the scorched creases of his cloak. The path was narrow, treacherous, carved by heat and time, winding down into the heart of the crater. Every step sent small stones tumbling into the lava rivers below, swallowed without sound.
Heat pressed against him like a living thing.
Skarn followed close, each of its iron-clad paws thudding against the stone with controlled precision. Even the Iron Howler moved cautiously here. The Furnace Coil was no place for hesitation... it was ancient, primal, alive in its hunger.
Vaelrik narrowed his eyes as they reached the lower ridge. Before them stretched a lake of molten fire, churning and heaving like a beast in slumber. The air shimmered with heat, warping the landscape, twisting it into something barely real.
And at the center of it all, Valgrin.
The Embermaw Drake stirred, an ocean of obsidian and flame. Its body shifted slowly, like a mountain waking. Molten rock sloughed from its sides, hissing into steam. Chains...thick as tree trunks... hung from its limbs, fused into its scales, some shattered, others straining against its motion.
Vaelrik stepped forward, his boots landing with finality on the last stretch of solid ground. The Sovereign Brand on his palm throbbed, reacting to the presence of another Writhe. Power coiled beneath his skin, hungry.
Valgrin opened a single eye.
A furnace of gold and red, its gaze locked onto Vaelrik. The world seemed to still, the air drawing tight, as if waiting.
Vaelrik didn't flinch.
"You feel it, don't you?" he said, voice low. "The Gate. The Brand. The crown waiting to be claimed."
Valgrin rumbled in response, a sound deeper than thunder, a quake that rolled through stone and bone alike. The lava around it surged, drawn inward, spiraling toward its massive chest.
The drake began to rise.
Wings unfurled, trailing embers. Its full size became apparent... a towering beast of flame and shadow, scales cracked with molten light. The air screamed around it, the heat now blistering, savage.
Skarn growled, bracing itself.
Vaelrik held his ground.
"I came to crown fire," he said, lifting the Brand. "Or die in its jaws."
He drove the Brand into the stone.
Reality cracked.
The Vaulting Gate tore open behind him, fire meeting fire. Crimson light exploded outward, searing the sky. Chains of flame lashed from the rift, drawn to Valgrin. The beast roared, wings flaring wide, its fury meeting the Gate's power.
The chains didn't bind. They forged.
Vaelrik lunged, the Brand blazing in his hand. He crossed the final span of rock, leapt into the air, and slammed the Brand into Valgrin's skull.
Light engulfed them both.
Pain. Power. Dominion.
The Sovereign Brand accepted the crown.
---
Vaelrik collapsed to one knee inside the Vaulting. The realm had shifted... ash replaced by black stone, the air no longer hot but heavy with power.
Valgrin stood before him, reborn.
Smaller now, but no less terrible. Its eyes burned, not with fury, but with knowledge. Recognition.
Vaelrik rose slowly.
The Brand on his palm shimmered, and with it came a surge of flame.
A weapon formed in his hand... a spiral of molten iron and jagged bone.
And from the Vaulting came a voice...
Edict Unlocked: Emberwake Spiral
Vaelrik grinned.
Two crowns.
The Menagerie was growing.