The morning broke slowly, dragging light over a land that still seemed caught in shadow. Mist clung to the ground like it refused to let go of the night. Aric packed in silence, his thoughts still tangled in the whispers from the ruins.
They left Hallowdeep behind, following a cracked stone road that twisted northward toward Emberreach—the old capital. It was said to be a city of forgotten power, buried in ash and silence after the fall of the Emberlords. Few dared travel there, and fewer still returned.
The road was rough, flanked by dead trees and broken statues whose faces had long been worn away by time. Dain walked ahead, checking for traps or signs of trouble, while Maelis stayed near Aric, her sharp eyes always scanning the treeline.
"You haven't said much," she said quietly as they walked.
Aric shrugged. "There's not much to say."
"There's too much to say," she corrected. "You saw the past. You felt something none of us did. And now you're… different."
"I don't know what I am."
Maelis studied him. "That's what makes you dangerous."
They traveled for hours, stopping only once to rest by an abandoned shrine carved into the cliffside. Moss had overgrown the stone, but the shape of a burning crown was still visible.
"The sigil of Emberreach," Dain said. "They used to say the crown wasn't worn—it was earned."
"Do people still live there?" Aric asked.
"No," Dain said. "Only ghosts and scavengers. Maybe some twisted things left behind by the war."
That night, they made camp in a hollow between two hills. The air felt colder the closer they got to Emberreach. The stars above flickered strangely, as if something unseen stirred just beyond the veil of sky.
Aric sat on watch while the others slept. He turned the Emberblade in his hands again, watching how the firelight danced along its edge. It whispered sometimes—not in words, but in feelings. Warnings. Memories. Hunger.
He caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
He stood quickly, blade drawn. A shadow stood just at the edge of the firelight—tall, cloaked, unmoving.
Aric raised the blade. "Show yourself."
The figure stepped forward. Pale skin. Hollow eyes. A strange, silver brand etched across his forehead.
"I've come with a message," the figure said. His voice was like wind over stone.
"From who?" Aric asked, tension rising.
"The one who waits in Emberreach," the stranger said. "He remembers the blade… and he remembers you."
Aric narrowed his eyes. "Who is he?"
The figure smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "He was once the first to carry the Emberblade. Now, he waits to take it back."
Before Aric could move, the figure stepped into the shadows—and vanished, leaving only a faint scorch mark on the ground.
Aric stared into the dark for a long time, the fire crackling behind him.
The past wasn't done with him. And the road to Emberreach would only get darker.