The moon hung high above the swamp, casting silver reflections on pools of still water. Kael and Lira moved carefully through the dense brush, away from the ruined vault. Every shadow seemed to stretch too far, every whisper of wind felt like a breath down their necks.
Veyrix's words haunted Kael: You are not ready.
Kael hated how true it felt.
His body ached with every step. The armor had receded into his skin after the battle, leaving faint glowing lines that pulsed beneath the surface. The sword, the relic, everything about his transformation had shaken him to his core.
Lira walked beside him, ever alert, but quieter than usual. She stole glances at him now and then—curious, maybe even afraid. And why wouldn't she be?
He had changed.
Again.
---
They reached a rocky outcrop near a small stream and stopped to rest. Lira gathered dry wood while Kael sat against a boulder, closing his eyes, focusing inward.
The relic responded immediately.
Welcome, bearer...
The voice echoed in his thoughts—not loud, not hostile—just ancient. It felt like an ember long dormant flickering to life.
"What are you?" Kael asked silently.
I am the Echo. The flame of memory. I carry the will of the Firstborn Knight who failed to stop the Cataclysm.
Kael's breath slowed. Was that me?
You are his successor. His fragment. Not whole, but tethered to his purpose. Through me, you awaken what was lost.
Images flooded his mind again: the vaults, the kings, the war. He saw a face—his own, older and hardened, wearing the same armor he'd just worn, standing on a battlefield of shattered stars.
Then the vision shifted. A familiar woman appeared—his mother, shackled in a dark tower surrounded by symbols of the Pale Hand.
Kael's eyes shot open.
"She's alive," he whispered.
Lira looked up from the fire. "What?"
"Mother. I saw her. The relic showed me—she's still alive, but... somewhere far away. Somewhere dark."
Lira stood. "Then we'll find her."
Kael clenched his fists. "Not yet. I'm not strong enough. Veyrix was right."
---
That night, as stars glittered overhead, they camped in silence. But sleep didn't come easily. Not for Kael.
When he closed his eyes, the relic spoke again.
There is one who can guide you, Kael. One who knows the path of fire and ruin. Seek the Flame Seer of Nareth Hollow.
He whispered the name aloud. "Nareth Hollow."
Lira stirred. "What is it?"
Kael turned toward her. "A lead. A teacher."
---
The next day, they set out northeast, guided by instinct, rumor, and the relic's pull. The marsh gave way to rolling foggy hills, the sky overcast with storms in the distance. Every village they passed was tense—whispers of "strangers in bone masks," of disappearances, of something dark spreading.
The Pale Hand was moving.
But so was Kael.
---
They finally reached the edges of Nareth Hollow on the third day. The place looked cursed—charred trees, scorched stone, ash in the wind.
At its center stood a circular stone dwelling partially sunk into a hill. Smoke drifted from a crooked chimney. No one else was in sight.
Kael approached cautiously.
Before he could knock, the door creaked open.
A figure stepped out—a woman, old yet ageless, with fiery red hair and glowing amber eyes. She wore robes patterned in flame and ash, and she studied Kael like a hawk sizing up a spark.
"I was expecting you," she said.
Kael blinked. "You're the Flame Seer?"
She nodded. "You carry the Echo. I can feel its fire. And I smell war on you."
Kael lowered his head. "I need your help."
The Seer looked at him long and hard, then gestured toward the door. "Then come in. And pray you survive the lessons I must teach."
---
Inside, her home smelled of incense and scorched herbs. Shelves of glowing stones and enchanted scrolls lined the walls. At the center burned a hearth, its flames unnatural—white and blue.
She pointed to it. "That flame is alive. It will test you."
Kael stepped forward. The moment he placed his hand near the fire, pain seared up his arm—not physical, but spiritual. Visions returned—worse this time. He saw the moment the Firstborn fell, saw cities swallowed by darkness, saw the Pale Hand for what they truly were.
Not just cultists.
Inheritors of oblivion.
The fire spoke a single word through the pain:
"Ruin."
Kael screamed.
Lira lunged forward, but the Seer stopped her. "Let it happen. This is his rebirth."
---
When Kael awoke, hours later, the glow in his veins had changed—sharper, more defined. The sword relic now rested on the hearth, its blade longer, its flame steadier.
"You've passed the first trial," the Seer said. "There are more. And not all are survivable."
Kael stood, stronger than before. "I'll face them all. I have to."
She smiled faintly. "Good. Because the Pale Hand has sent their next executioner—and he is already on his way."
---