Pain came first.
White-hot, blinding, like lightning splintering through bone. Auren's breath hitched as he stirred from the black fog of unconsciousness. His side was on fire. Blood soaked through his tunic, sticky and warm, and every movement sent shards of agony through his ribs.
But none of that mattered.
He remembered her—kneeling, a sword drawn across her throat. Seraphina.
"Seraphina," he croaked.
No answer. Only the crackle of flames and the muted groans of the dying.
He blinked up at a low stone ceiling. The scent of herbs and ash filled his lungs. He was in a small chamber—hidden, underground, lit only by a flickering oil lamp. Someone had dragged him here.
A shadow moved.
Then a familiar voice: "Took you long enough."
Auren turned his head, wincing.
Nyra.
She knelt beside him, her armor scratched and bloodied, a deep gash above her brow. Her tone was gruff, but her eyes were rimmed red.
"You nearly died, you idiot," she said. "You got lucky the bolt went clean through."
"Seraphina?" His voice cracked.
Nyra looked away. "They took her."
The world tilted.
"She surrendered," she continued, jaw clenched. "To buy us time. Half the garrison got out through the tunnels while the Tribunal focused on her."
Auren tried to sit up. Pain flared, but he forced himself upright.
"Where?" he asked.
"They've taken her to the Black Bastion. Fortress of the High Tribunal. No one goes in, and no one comes out."
Auren's eyes darkened. The Black Bastion wasn't just a fortress—it was a labyrinth of cruelty, a stronghold for inquisitors and political purges. It was where empires sent their enemies to disappear.
"She knew what she was doing," Nyra added. "She bought us time. And you—we need your mind now more than ever."
But Auren wasn't listening.
A memory stirred—Seraphina's voice, the night they rode south:
"If the walls fall, I won't die quiet. I'll make sure my flames take something with them."
He closed his eyes, suppressing the tremor in his hands. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not again. He had come back to change the future, to outmaneuver fate.
And yet fate was still one step ahead.
Two Days Later – Black Bastion
Chains bit into her wrists.
Seraphina stood in a chamber carved from obsidian and bone. Magic pulsed in the walls—wards, curses, and the oily stink of nullfire. Her strength was dulled here. Her fire couldn't rise.
Not yet.
A figure entered.
Tall. Cloaked in red and black. And behind him, a face she hadn't seen in years.
"Uncle."
Duke Mordain Duskfire was older now, silver streaking his once-black hair, but his eyes burned with the same cold ambition. He dismissed the guards with a wave, then approached her slowly, like a man inspecting a rare weapon.
"You've grown into your mother's fire," he said. "Pity you never learned her obedience."
Seraphina didn't flinch. "She would've slit your throat if she'd known what you truly were."
Mordain smiled. "Then she died blind."
He circled her.
"I offered you a chance," he said. "A place at my side, ruling a new empire. But you chose rebellion. You chose weakness."
"I chose to stand for something. That's what scares you."
"No, niece. What scares me is that you still believe words matter more than power."
He lifted a pendant from his neck. It shimmered faintly—raw rune stone.
"You see, I've learned to harness power beyond swords and soldiers. Beyond fire." He tapped the pendant. "There's a prophecy etched into the bones of this world. And you… you're the final key."
Seraphina's lips curled. "You mean to kill me?"
"No." He leaned in. "I mean to break you."
Then he left.
And Seraphina, alone again in the dark, closed her eyes—not in defeat, but in focus.
She whispered a prayer. Not to gods, but to memory. To fire. To the man who said he'd always guard her back.
Come, Auren.
Meanwhile – The Outskirts of Valemire
Auren's fingers bled ink.
Maps, diagrams, escape routes, infiltration plans—he'd gone through fifty, discarded forty-nine. Every version ended in her death.
He couldn't just storm the Black Bastion. Even with his network of spies and loyalists, the fortress was a tomb.
But then a spark flared in his mind.
A memory.
Not from this life, but the last.
He remembered a night before his death—whispers in the royal court about a hidden vault beneath the Bastion. A vault that predated the Tribunal. Built by the old mages. Forbidden and buried.
More importantly, he remembered how to reach it.
He rose, called Nyra.
"I know how to get inside."
She blinked. "You're serious?"
"I'm going to do what I should've done a lifetime ago."
Later – Inside the Vault
The tunnel stank of rot and old magic. Runes pulsed like sluggish veins in the walls.
Auren moved in silence, cloak wrapped tight, pain pulsing in his side. Nyra and two others followed behind. This wasn't a rescue.
It was war.
They reached the first ward wall. Auren knelt, pressed his hand to the stone.
Remember, think backward. The old mages used mirrored logic.
He traced a sigil with blood from his wrist, then whispered: "Let the fire see the night."
The wall dissolved.
Beyond it, silence.
Until they heard it.
A scream.
Seraphina's scream.
Auren didn't wait.
He ran, faster than pain allowed, through the final hall—until he burst into the chamber.
There she was.
Chained. Bleeding. Defiant.
And standing before her, holding the glowing rune pendant—Mordain.
The duke turned. Surprise flashed in his eyes. "You."
Auren raised a small black orb and whispered a word.
The explosion wasn't loud—but it was bright. A sun detonating in a room of shadows. Smoke and dust. Screams.
He was at Seraphina's side in seconds, blade slashing through her bonds.
She looked up, blinking. "Took you long enough."
He smiled faintly. "You look terrible."
She grabbed his wrist, fire sparking. "Let's burn our way out."
They turned—
But Mordain was gone.
And above them, the ceiling cracked.
Dust poured down.
And then the stone gave way.
They had seconds.
Auren threw himself over her.
The ceiling collapsed—
And the world went black again.