Chapter 10: Ashes Beneath the Crown
The night was no longer silent.
A crimson haze loomed over the torn battleground as Leonhart stood in the aftermath of their narrow escape. His breath was heavy, but his stance remained unbroken. Behind him, the scattered remnants of the ruined camp glowed faintly under the flickering flames.
Satan had vanished, but not without a promise—a cold whisper that still echoed in Leonhart's mind:
"This is not your war, but I will make it yours."
Leonhart clenched his fist, the air around his hand trembling slightly with energy he hadn't yet learned to control. There was a growing fire within him, something awakened by fear… and fate. He didn't know why, but the flame that once belonged to the city now resided in him. He could feel its memory, its rage, its loss.
From the shadows, footsteps approached.
It was Riven—the sharp-eyed scout who had joined them briefly during the fall of the Smoke City. His presence had been uncertain… until now. He carried with him an old lantern, its light dim and blue.
"You've seen him," Riven said, voice low. "The one in black flame. That was no illusion."
Leonhart turned toward him. "You knew?"
"Not who he was," Riven answered, shaking his head. "But I knew something was following you. Ever since you left the northern ridge. The more power you awaken, the louder you become. And now he's heard you."
Leonhart looked back at the burning wreckage. "Then let him hear louder."
Riven gave a faint smirk. "There's someone you need to meet. She's not part of your war—not yet. But she knows what's coming."
---
They traveled beyond the edge of the burning plains, into a quiet valley known in old myth as the Hollow of Names. No birds sang there. No wind moved the trees. Only the silence of forgotten battles remained.
The land seemed untouched by time, yet every stone whispered of pain. It was said those who died without a name ended up here, forever echoing in the still air.
Waiting at the center of the valley was a woman clad in obsidian armor. Her face was hidden behind a mask of silver and ash, and yet her presence alone bent the air. Power. History. Pain.
"You brought him?" she asked.
"I did," Riven replied. "Leonhart. He's ready."
She studied Leonhart in silence. Then her voice came low and sharp. "You survived the flame. That means you've been chosen by it. But survival isn't enough. You must burn."
Leonhart stepped forward. "Then show me how."
The woman lifted her gauntleted hand, and the ground beneath them shifted. Images of past wars danced in the air—kings slain by betrayal, heroes consumed by ambition, and shadows older than time crawling between moments.
"In every age," she whispered, "there is one who rises. Not to rule. Not to save. But to end."
Leonhart felt the weight of those words. The flame within him pulsed, answering something ancient in her voice. This wasn't just power. It was inheritance. A burden passed through blood and ash.
"You have seven days," the woman said. "Seven nights to master what you carry before it devours you. Or worse, draws him back."
"Satan?"
She nodded slowly. "He is not bound by life. Nor death. Only purpose."
Leonhart looked at Riven, then back at her. "Why help me?"
Her mask tilted slightly. "Because I once chose to burn, and the world paid the price for my silence. This time, I speak."
---
The training that followed was brutal.
Every night, Leonhart stood in the center of flame and shadow, conjuring the memory of Smoke City's fall. He learned not to resist the flame, but to listen to it. To guide it. He failed more times than he succeeded, each failure branding his skin with phantom heat.
On the fourth night, the flame cracked his voice.
On the fifth, it cracked the ground beneath his feet.
And on the sixth, it whispered a name he hadn't heard in years—his brother's.
Memories rushed back—the forgotten grave, the unmarked blade, the scream that never left his throat. The flame knew. It always knew.
On the seventh night, the woman returned.
"You are not ready," she said. "But he will not wait."
Leonhart stood, the edges of his coat burned, his hands trembling not from weakness—but from control.
"Let him come," Leonhart said.
The valley shook. A low rumble echoed across the hills.
In the distance, a pi
llar of black fire rose into the sky.
Satan had returned.
---
End of Chapter 10