The descent from the Emberhold was somber. Though victorious, the trials had changed them—some wounds were visible, others hidden deep beneath the surface. Kaelin walked in silence, the newly awakened blade strapped across her back, its warmth pulsing against her skin.
Each heartbeat echoed like a promise.
A promise of war.
---
Campfire Secrets
That night, their campfire flickered with uneasy energy. Jericho busied himself with translating the final glyphs on the map. Mira sat away from the fire, sharpening her blades in rhythmic motions that masked her anxiety. Ayla gazed at the stars, whispering something under her breath.
"Do you believe in the Soulbound King?" Kaelin asked suddenly.
The group fell silent.
Jericho looked up slowly. "The Soulbound King is no myth. He was once the heir to the Night Court—a prince born with the ability to anchor spirits to his will. But he disappeared centuries ago… said to have made a pact with death itself."
"And now?" Kaelin pressed.
"He walks again," Jericho said, his voice grim. "Gathering the Forgotten Clans. The whispers say he seeks the Heartfire."
Kaelin's blade glowed faintly at the name.
---
Visions and Visitors
That night, Kaelin dreamed.
She stood in a forest of shadows, the trees stretching to impossible heights. A pale figure stepped from the mist—tall, cloaked in ice-blue robes, with hollow eyes and a crown of bone.
"You are fire," he said. "But fire dies when the night becomes eternal."
Kaelin reached for her blade, but it wasn't there.
"You are not ready," the figure said, raising a skeletal hand. "And when I come for you… I will not show mercy."
She awoke with a start—sweat trailing down her spine, the fire now burned low. Jericho stood watch, but his eyes were distant.
"You saw him too, didn't you?" he asked.
Kaelin nodded. "He knows who I am."
---
The Scholar's Warning
By dawn, they reached a crumbling temple overgrown with vines. Jericho insisted they stop.
Inside, ancient murals depicted battles from long before their time—wars between light and shadow, dragons bound in flame, and a great king seated on a throne of bones.
One wall was freshly marked, recent—a spiral of blood and ash.
"That's not ancient," Mira muttered.
Jericho crouched beside it, tracing the pattern. "This is his mark. The Soulbound King has been here. And whoever stayed behind to watch the temple... they didn't survive."
Bones littered the far chamber, charred and blackened. A warning.
Kaelin stared at the spiral. "He's not just coming. He's already moving."
---
A Kingdom in Peril
Far to the east, in the capital of Aldelorne, messengers whispered of dark signs.
The queen paced the high tower, her sapphire cloak fluttering behind her. "How many border villages have we lost?" she demanded.
"Five this month, Your Majesty," the captain said. "And each leaves behind no survivors. Only his symbol."
"The spiral."
The queen's fists clenched. "Then we need her. The girl. The one the fire chose."
"But the Flameborn hasn't sworn loyalty to any crown."
"She will," the queen said coldly. "Or I will burn her path myself."