Book One: Rise of the Demonborn
Chapter 24: Echoes of Fire, Whispers of Rebellion
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The gates of *Vorth Karran* shut behind *Lira Ashveil*.
As she disappeared into the mist beyond the cursed forest, five shadows emerged from the upper balconies of the throne room.
Kael didn't look up.
"I know you're there."
*Var'Rael*, his strategist, stepped forward first.
"You should have burned her, Hollow King."
*Serineth*, the Pale Fire, hissed.
"She saw the throne room. The city. *You.*"
Kael rested his chin on his fingers. Calm.
"She was never a threat."
Thornhelm grunted. "But she may become one."
Kael finally turned his eyes on them.
"She came with fire… and left with a warning."
"Let her burn elsewhere first.
The world will listen when the fire *fails*."
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Meanwhile, miles away, Lira stumbled out of the Cursed Forest, exhausted, cloak torn.
Waiting for her at the border camp was *Seren*, alongside the last remaining holy clerics.
They rushed to her side.
"You survived," Seren whispered. "Gods above, I thought—"
Lira raised a shaky hand.
"He's not just power, Seren… he's *order.*
He knows what he's doing."
She looked straight into Seren's eyes.
"He didn't kill me because he wants us to understand—
that *he could have.*"
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Back in *Solmar*, her audience with the royal court was quiet at first.
She gave her full report. The architecture. The undead. The city of Theronox. The conversation.
But when she revealed Kael's words…
"There are no innocents. Only ignorance."
…the king grew pale.
"This is no longer a war," Alric murmured. "This is a *reconstruction.*"
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Elsewhere, in the *deepest vaults* of Vorth Karran…
*Miraith*, the Silent Chanter, gathered four of the inner soulbound.
"The king is soft," she said in her hollow voice.
"He shows mercy. The girl should've died screaming."
One undead warrior stepped forward.
"But he raised us. Gave us form."
Miraith's eyes shimmered.
"Yes. And now he threatens to *weaken us.*
If Kael forgets pain… we must remind him."
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Back in Kael's sanctum, he stood before a window overlooking Theronox.
The city was growing fast—constructed by dead hands, guided by the living will of a 16-year-old sovereign who had never laughed, never cried.
Only *watched.*
He closed his eyes.
And saw the world as shadows moving on the edge of a great flame.
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He whispered:
"They will come again.
Not with one hero.
But with *armies of hope.*"
His hand clenched.
"Let them come.
I'll bury them in understanding."
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