Dawn clawed through the mist as Dragon's Teeth rumbled awake beneath Kaelen's boots. The spires behind him shimmered with the afterglow of politics and false promises. Yet the cold in his chest wasn't from frost or fatigue. It was from the weight of a win too easy.
Too clean.
The Council had voted, aye. The motion passed. The Ember would be redirected. The Iron Council forges condemned.
But Kaelen had seen it in their eyes—some of those masks hadn't cracked with defeat. They'd smiled. Subtle. Sympathetic.
Like men who knew where the next trap lay buried.
He gritted his teeth, cloak whipping behind him as the wind screamed between the stone arches. The others followed close. Jonah with the same clenched jaw he wore before a knife fight. Liora, silent for once, scribbling notes behind her eyes. And behind them, the crate containing the Ember—sealed, glowing, thrumming like a caged god desperate to break free.
Velora walked ahead.
Her silhouette moved like smoke and steel, too graceful for someone with as much blood on her hands as he suspected. Her robes swirled crimson as she glanced back, lips curved, eyes unreadable.
"You did well," she said.
Kaelen didn't answer.
She slowed. "You made history in there."
"I made enemies."
Velora's smile didn't falter. "Same thing."
They descended through the Bastion's inner tiers, past stone-faced guards and marble-eyed statues older than memory. The Ember's wards pulsed in Kaelen's palm as he adjusted the chain binding it to his forearm. He could feel it watching him, heatless and alive.
Jonah murmured behind him. "You see some of them squirm?"
"I saw worse," Kaelen replied without turning. "I saw the ones who didn't."
Velora led them into the Hall of Shields—a circular chamber lined with enchanted banners and flickering ward-lights. The air was dry and thick with incense. Not a place for celebration. A place for aftermaths.
Kaelen stepped onto the dais and turned.
Velora folded her arms. "They'll come for you."
He nodded. "Let them."
"That wasn't bravado. I meant tonight."
A beat. Jonah shifted.
Kaelen frowned. "You said the Council was bound by their vote."
"They are," she said. "But not the ones who didn't vote. Abstaining is their alibi. Their knives are still sharp."
Liora stepped forward, voice clipped. "We need to move the Ember. Stash it at the Southern vaults, switch crates, fake the route."
Kaelen shook his head. "No. They'll expect misdirection. We ride with it straight through their teeth."
Velora arched a brow. "You're inviting a fight."
"I'm inviting clarity."
She stared at him for a long moment. "You're turning into something dangerous."
"I was always dangerous."
The silence stretched.
Then she smiled faintly. "Good."
He turned away before she could say more.
They left the Bastion under shadowlight, cloaked in ward sigils that shimmered in their wake. Whispers followed them—too many knew already. Word moved faster than horses in this city. The Champion was alive. He bore the Ember. He'd won the Council.
He had to die.
They reached the under-streets by nightfall, when the upper rings of Dragon's Teeth shone like torches held by gods. Kaelen stood still as the group made camp in a broken forge vault long abandoned. The air still smelled of ash.
He pulled his cloak tighter, crouched by the crate, and felt the weight in his blood shift.
The mutation stirred.
Ever since the Lionblood's awakening, his body had begun to adjust in ways he couldn't yet map. His heartbeat had slowed. His eyesight in the dark had sharpened. He could smell iron in the air, even detect lies in the twitch of a muscle.
But more than that, something inside him—deep, primal, old—was listening. Not to people. To things beneath the world. The hum of stone. The pulse of ley-lines. The hunger of Aether.
"Your claws," Jonah muttered beside him. "They're longer now."
Kaelen flexed his fingers. Bone gleamed faintly beneath his gloves.
"They're adapting. Like the rest of me."
"You gonna lose control?"
Kaelen looked up. "Not yet."
Jonah gave a dry snort. "Comforting."
The night passed like a loaded blade—silent, gleaming, close to drawing blood.
By morning, a scream split the alleys outside.
Kaelen was on his feet before his breath caught. His body moved like muscle-memory rewired—faster, heavier, more aware.
He leapt over the crates and landed on cracked cobblestone, claws extended.
Three figures.
Rogues, but not street trash. Red-stained leather. Ember-touched blades. Iron Council shadows.
One lunged.
Kaelen sidestepped, ducked, caught the man's throat with a forearm and drove his claws into the ribs. The blade at his side slashed upward. He let it catch his shoulder—then twisted, cracked bone, and ripped out the attacker's spine-segment in a wet hiss.
Another screamed. Jonah tackled him from behind, dagger flashing.
The third turned to run—but froze.
Velora stood in his path.
She didn't speak.
She simply touched his forehead with one finger.
The man collapsed, twitching, eyes gone white. Brain-fried.
Kaelen wiped his claws clean on the corpse's cloak.
"You alright?" Jonah muttered, glancing at his shoulder.
"I've had worse," Kaelen said.
But he looked down.
The wound was closing. Not fast—but faster than human.
He looked up, and Velora was watching him.
"You're changing more rapidly than projected," she said softly. "The bond is accelerating."
"I noticed."
She stepped closer. Her voice dropped.
"Kaelen… be careful. The more power you take, the less you may remain yourself."
He held her gaze. "What makes you think I was ever just myself?"
A flicker of emotion—hard to read. Worry? Interest?
Then she turned away.
Later, when the bodies were burned and the Ember re-warded, Kaelen sat in the center of the vault. Alone. Thinking.
The system's hum moved through him again.
A new message blinked behind his eyes.
You have achieved: Dual Path Resonance
Beast Path (Awakened): Pride Stalker
Human Path (Adept): Brawler → Ironhide Fang
Path Fusion Triggered: Adaptive Instinct Tier Gained
• Reflex acceleration boosted
• Tactical perception increased
• Muscle recovery accelerated
Next Tier Requirements: 3 Named Kill Marks or 1 Title Acquisition
He stared at it.
Ironhide Fang.
The name felt right. He had felt his skin resist those blades earlier—had felt something lock under the surface, refusing to tear. His instincts were sharpening by the hour. His thoughts clearer.
But that "Named Kill Marks" requirement… that was new.
He would need to hunt.
People with names.
Reputation. Bloodline. Purpose.
Not just to rise.
To survive.
He exhaled and leaned back.
Above him, the Ember crackled softly in its cage, as if dreaming of fire.
He dreamed of it too.
Fire.
And something older beneath it.
Roaring.
Watching.
Waiting.