The Veilscar Range slept behind them, but the storm it birthed followed in silence.Dark clouds clung to the mountains, heavy and low, and every now and then, lightning split the horizon — pale, silent flashes that rippled through the mana veins beneath their feet.
Lyn walked at the front of the group, the newly etched crest on his palm still faintly glowing. The mark pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat — steady, unyielding — yet each pulse sent a shiver through him, as if something inside was shifting.
Umbra drifted beside him, wings trailing shadows. —You are quiet, shadowborn.
"You said the second flame was the mark of endurance," Lyn murmured. "So why does it feel like something's breaking inside me?"
—Because endurance is not strength, Umbra replied. It is survival in the face of collapse.
Arden's voice broke the silence. "Hey, Lyn. You sure we should be out in the open like this? After what happened in the Cradle, every relic-hunter and spirit zealot will be chasing our trail."
Rhea shot him a sharp look. "You think hiding will change that? Half the world already knows Lyn carries the Eighth Crest's shard. The other half will soon enough."
Arden scowled. "You sound like you want them to find us."
"Maybe I do," Rhea said evenly. "Better they face us head-on than lurk in the shadows."
Lyn stopped walking, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. "Enough."
The word carried no anger, yet both of them fell silent. The air around them hummed faintly — the kind of resonance that came only when Lyn's crest stirred unconsciously.
"We can't afford to divide now," he continued softly. "The Cradle said there are eight shards. We have two. That means six more, and each one will be harder to find."
Umbra inclined its head. —And each will ask for a greater price.
"Then I'll pay it," Lyn said, too quickly.
Umbra turned its burning gaze toward him. —Be careful with promises made in pain. The flame listens.
They walked in silence again until dusk fell. The group set camp beside an ancient bridge, its arches half-buried in fog. A river flowed below — black as ink, glimmering with faint silver light where mana touched its surface.
Rhea tended the fire, her expression distant. Arden stood watch at the bridge's edge, blades sheathed but hands restless. Lyn sat apart, staring at his reflection in the water.
His crest pulsed again — once, twice — and the reflection flickered. For a moment, he didn't see himself but someone else: a man with his eyes, his voice, but older. Hardened. The same crest burned on his palm, but the light was red, not silver.
Lyn blinked — and the image was gone.
"Umbra," he whispered, "what happens if I fail these trials?"
—Then the flame chooses another.
"And me?"
Umbra's silence said more than words ever could.
Rhea approached quietly, a soft glow from her mana lantern tracing the edge of her face. "You haven't slept since we left the Cradle."
"Can't," Lyn admitted. "Every time I close my eyes, I hear them."
"The seers?"
He nodded. "Whispering. Telling me to keep moving north. It feels like the shards are pulling me there — or dragging me."
Rhea sat beside him, pulling her cloak tighter. "You know what scares me most about you, Lyn?"
He looked at her, surprised. "What?"
"That you don't sound afraid anymore."
He didn't answer.
The fire crackled softly in the background, and for a moment, the world felt almost still — until Umbra's form suddenly stiffened.
—Something approaches.
Arden drew his blades, scanning the shadows. "How many?"
—Three. Fast. Human.
Shapes emerged through the mist — cloaked figures with silver masks, each bearing the insignia of the Council Remnants.
One of them stepped forward, voice sharp as steel. "Lyn Kael of the Umbra Bond. By decree of the surviving Council, you are to surrender the Crest fragments in your possession."
Arden spat to the side. "Yeah, that's not happening."
Lyn rose slowly. The air thickened around him, his shadow stretching unnaturally long as Umbra's wings unfurled behind him.
"You're too late," he said quietly. "The flames have already chosen."
The masked leader hesitated — just long enough for Lyn's crest to ignite. The ground beneath them split, releasing a shockwave of raw mana that sent the attackers sprawling.
The nearest soldier tried to rise — and froze, eyes wide as Lyn's shadow crawled up his body like smoke.
"Leave," Lyn said, voice low, calm, absolute. "Tell your masters: the Eighth Flame does not bow."
The man nodded frantically before vanishing into the mist, dragging his companions with him.
When the silence returned, even the river seemed to hold its breath.
Rhea exhaled slowly. "You didn't kill them."
"No," Lyn murmured. "Not yet."
Umbra watched him in silence, its gaze unreadable. —You are changing, Lyn.
He didn't look away from the fog. "I know."
The night deepened around them, and somewhere beyond the mountains, another shard pulsed — faint, waiting.
The flame burned brighter. And its price had only begun.