The sound of the horn echoed like a pulse through the stone halls of Duskreach.
Kael stood frozen for a heartbeat—long enough to feel the chill of prophecy crackle down his spine. It wasn't just a warning. It was a summons. A challenge. The Woken knew he was here.
And they were coming.
Elira knelt by the iron gate, her hands steady as they danced over the rusted lock. Serin's eyes, silver-flecked and too old for her face, watched them both with a wariness earned through pain.
"You said you escaped," Elira murmured. "How long were you down here?"
Serin's voice was soft, the kind that made people lean in to hear. "Three years, maybe four. Time doesn't move the same in the dark. They left me here when I failed."
"Failed?" Kael asked.
"I didn't break." Her lips twisted into something bitter. "They couldn't use me."
Elira's fingers sparked with firelight, searing the lock open with a hiss. The gate creaked wide.
Kael offered Serin his hand.
She hesitated. Then took it.
Her skin was ice.
As they led her out of the depths, Elira glanced sideways. "You said the Woken kings were coming. How do you know?"
Serin blinked slowly. "Because the Brand sang."
Kael stiffened. "Sang?"
"To them. To me. It's alive, you know. The Brand isn't just a mark. It's a tether—to the Source, to the ones who created it. And now that you've awakened it fully... they've felt you. And they want you back."
The air turned heavier with each step.
They returned to the war room, laying out what weapons they had, what wards they could still conjure. Duskreach had defenses—ancient ones—but they were fractured, weakened by time and blood.
Kael strapped on his armor in silence, the pieces heavier than they used to be. Elira moved beside him, lacing a protective ward around his wrist as she whispered, "Don't fight alone."
"I won't."
Serin stood by the window, watching the horizon.
"They'll come in flame. But not through the front. They like shadows. They want fear before blood."
Elira looked at her. "Then we give them neither."
The first wave hit by nightfall.
Black-robed figures slithered through the cracks of the fortress wall—silent as mist, eyes glowing the deep red of ancient fire. Woken, but more refined. These weren't the mindless husks of battlefield legends. These were the Chosen. The commanders.
Kael met them in the outer courtyard—blade drawn, fury blazing. He moved like a storm unshackled. Each blow was precise, brutal. His Brand pulsed with power he didn't fully understand but no longer feared. Flames licked the steel of his sword. The Woken recoiled—but only barely.
Elira fought beside him, her spells tighter now, sharper. She summoned heat and light in controlled bursts, her flame not wild but deliberate, fueled by purpose instead of panic
They moved together like halves of a whole.
But there were too many.
"Fall back!" Kael shouted.
They retreated through the inner gate, Serin leading them to a hidden passage she remembered from before her imprisonment. The old tunnels groaned underfoot, but held. For now.
They emerged in the western tower, high above the main hall. Below, more Woken surged through the lower levels.
"They're not stopping," Elira said, breathless.
Kael wiped blood from his brow. "Then we end it. Tonight."
Serin stepped forward. "There's a chamber beneath the fortress. A core. The Source. That's what calls them. Destroy it—and you sever their hold."
Kael frowned. "How do you know this?"
Her eyes turned hollow. "Because they built it with me inside."
Elira gripped Kael's arm. "We go together."
He nodded.
The descent was fast and brutal.
They fought through three more waves of Woken—closer now, louder, more savage. The Brand on Kael's chest burned hot, guiding him like instinct. Every swing of his sword was heavier, deeper. He was becoming something he didn't recognize—and didn't entirely hate.
At the lowest level, they found it.
A vast circular chamber lit with veins of molten red across the floor. In the center stood the Source—a jagged black obelisk, pulsing with dark energy.
The Woken were already waiting.
This was their altar.
Kael didn't wait for a plan.
He charged.
Elira was right behind him, her hands blazing. Serin hung back, chanting something old and sacred, the language of the Keepers. The obelisk screamed in response, a high-pitched ringing that shattered bone and will alike.
Kael drove his blade into the heart of the stone.
It resisted.
Flames burst from the impact—black and red, not natural. The obelisk pulsed, then cracked.
Elira reached for the fracture with both hands, pouring her fire inside.
The stone shattered with a howl.
The force knocked them all back.
When Kael woke, the chamber was still. The Woken lay lifeless. The obelisk—gone. The fire—silent.
Elira stirred beside him, eyes wide. "Is it over?"
Kael sat up slowly. "I don't know."
Serin was gone.
Just a faint trail of silver dust where she'd stood.
Kael reached for Elira, helped her to her feet. She clung to his hand.
Outside, dawn was breaking.
For the first time, it fe
lt like the sun rose without resistance.
But the silence left behind wasn't peace.
It was the breath before the next storm.