The fracture in the Dragonheart Gem was thin as a whisper—but Adrien could feel the wound like a blade in his chest. Every beat of the stone was slower now, more labored. As if the soul inside it was bleeding.
Serai paced the chamber, her composure fraying. "This shouldn't be possible. The Dragonheart Gems were bound with Sovereign-grade soulcraft—Aurenis's own Flame. They weren't meant to break."
Kaelen hovered warily behind Adrien. "Okay, but just for context—what exactly happens if they do break?"
Serai stopped. "Then the Flame dies. Not just the Soul-Flame. All of it. Dragonkind, dragon magic, the memory of it—erased. Permanently."
Adrien's throat tightened. "We're running out of time."
He turned to the altar. It had gone cold, the gold fire snuffed out, but something shimmered faintly beneath the surface—a shape he hadn't noticed before. A map.
Etched in light.
Adrien reached out, and the map unfolded in midair, projected from the fractured Gem like the last breath of a dying star. Dozens of points glowed faintly, scattered across continents and oceans. Only seven pulsed with real light—alive.
"Seven Gems," Serai whispered. "Of the thirteen created."
Kaelen whistled. "So, good news: some are still out there. Bad news: six are probably dust."
Adrien studied the points. "They're spread out. Warded. Hidden in bloodlines and vaults."
Serai stepped closer, her fingers brushing a mark near the southern isles. "This one… I've seen this before. House Thorne. They were Flamekeepers once, before the Fall."
Adrien nodded. "Then that's where we go next."
Kaelen groaned. "Can we at least stop for lunch between saving dragonkind and facing ancient soul-destroying cults?"
But no one answered.
Because in that moment, the map flared—and one of the glowing points blinked out.
Serai inhaled sharply. "They've destroyed another."
Adrien clenched his jaw, the fracture in the Gem flaring in response. "Then we move now."
Meanwhile, across the sea, in the ruined city of Kharos, Virelith stood among scorched columns and broken statues. At her feet, the remnants of the second Dragonheart Gem glowed faintly, then faded to ash.
A beastkin warlock approached, his horns glistening with arcane oil. "The map has been triggered."
Virelith nodded. "Let him chase the echoes. He's playing his part beautifully."
She reached into her cloak and drew out a blade—not steel, but dragonbone, carved with runes older than language.
"When he gathers the last Gem," she said, "he'll do what Aurenis never dared."
She smiled, vicious and quiet.
"He'll awaken the Great Flame. And when he does—we'll consume it."
Back in the Hollow, Serai packed the last of the relics she'd kept preserved: scrolls of forgotten dragoncraft, sealed vials of Skyhold ash, and a piece of her own egg-shell—now pulsing with latent magic.
Adrien shouldered his pack, glancing once more at the dying altar.
"You coming with us?" he asked.
Serai gave him a look that was almost offended. "I didn't wait five hundred years to sit out the finale."
Kaelen chuckled. "Oh good. Another ancient, fire-blooded mystery girl with repressed trauma and apocalyptic visions. What could possibly go wrong?"
Adrien ignored him. "We leave by dusk. We'll head south across the Riftscar. If we can reach House Thorne before the Hand—"
"If," Serai interrupted, "they haven't already been compromised."
Adrien nodded grimly. "Then we'll do what dragons do."
Kaelen arched an eyebrow. "Burn things?"
"No," Adrien said, and his Soul-Flame flickered around his hands in golden arcs of light.
"We rise."
Far away, in a chamber of obsidian roots and whispering blood, a girl with eyes like stormglass opened her mouth—and screamed.
Chains burned red against her wrists.
She was the next piece in the puzzle.
And Adrien had no idea she was his sister.