Heat radiated from the land like a curse.
The Scorching Reaches stretched before them—miles of cracked, blackened earth with no vegetation, no cover, and no sign of water. The ground had not healed since the War of Cinders, when demonic firestorms rained for seven nights, fueled by blood rituals and the rage of the old Demon Generals.
Callan had led one of those storms.
Now, he returned as a different man. But the land remembered.
He and Ren moved cautiously, cloaks pulled tightly against the dry winds. The sun above was merciless. Ash still rose with every step, like the earth itself was coughing.
"How long before we reach the outskirts of Cindermarch?" Ren asked, squinting at the horizon.
"Two days, if we're lucky," Callan replied. "The terrain shifts. There are places where the air burns without fire. It's not just heat—it's residual magic."
Ren scowled. "Sounds like hell."
Callan gave a humorless smile. "It was."
They walked in silence for hours, navigating broken stones and bones fused into the ground. Once, they passed a twisted statue—once a proud sentinel, now melted and disfigured. The closer they came to the old capital, the more frequent these remnants became.
And then the screams began.
At first faint, carried by the wind—agonized cries that echoed from nowhere. Ren spun around, blades half-drawn.
"Ghosts?"
"No," Callan said. "Not ghosts. Echoes."
"Echoes?"
"Leftover imprints from the war. Magic so strong it burned itself into the land. Emotions, sounds… dying thoughts. They repeat. Forever."
As if on cue, a child's laughter drifted across the empty plains.
Ren shuddered. "Okay, that's worse than ghosts."
They pressed on.
By midday, they reached a ravine carved into the ground like a gash. The path ahead narrowed into a pass between two cliffs, both blackened and jagged. Callan slowed.
"What is it?" Ren asked.
Callan pointed to the rock walls. Symbols glowed faintly—old demonic glyphs. Warning sigils.
"Someone's activated the old wards," he said. "Which means someone doesn't want us going this way."
As he spoke, the ground trembled.
From the ravine, creatures rose.
Not natural beasts. Not even demons. These were Ashbound—twisted remnants of soldiers who had died during the Firestorm, cursed to burn forever without dying. Their bodies were charred husks, their eyes glowing like coals.
Six of them. Then ten. Then fifteen.
Ren took a step back. "You've got to be kidding me."
"They're drawn to me," Callan said grimly. "They know what I am."
"No plan then?"
"Same plan as always."
"Fight and try not to die?"
Callan drew his sword. "Exactly."
The Ashbound attacked in a wave.
They moved faster than expected—jerky, unpredictable, as if their broken bodies no longer obeyed normal rules. The air shimmered with heat as they approached.
Callan struck first, his blade cleaving through the nearest husk. It crumbled into dust, but two more surged forward, claws slashing. Ren rolled beneath one and plunged his dagger upward into the creature's jaw.
"Too many!" Ren shouted. "They just keep coming!"
Callan agreed. For every one they cut down, another rose from the ashes. He knew why—this wasn't just a fight. It was a test. The wards had been set to summon protectors. Guardians of the old path. The only way to survive was to break the spell fueling them.
"Cover me!" he yelled.
Ren nodded and launched into a flurry of attacks, distracting the Ashbound as Callan raced toward the glyph-marked cliff wall.
He slammed his palm against the stone, channeling his aura. For a moment, nothing happened—then the glyphs pulsed in protest.
The wall itself resisted.
"You're still trying to block me out?" Callan muttered. "I'm the one who built you."
He focused, drawing on the deeper reservoir of power he had long avoided. The demonic part of himself. His arm darkened, veins glowing faint red, and the glyphs cracked.
With a roar, he pushed all his energy into the stone.
The wards shattered.
Instantly, the Ashbound froze… and then collapsed, one by one, their cursed fire extinguished.
Ren limped to his side, panting. "Okay. So that's a thing you can do."
Callan's arm returned to normal, but sweat poured from his brow. "It takes more than it used to."
They rested in the shadow of the cliff for an hour, eating dried meat and drinking the last of their water. Ren looked up at the sky—no sign of clouds. Just endless sun and heat.
"We'll need to find shelter before night," he said. "I hear the Scorching Reaches freeze over after dark."
Callan nodded. "There's an old outpost up ahead. If it's still standing, we can camp there."
By nightfall, they found it.
A half-collapsed stone structure built into the side of a cliff—once a military outpost for the Demon Legion. Now, it was more ruin than shelter, but the inner chamber still stood. Cold winds cut across the plains, howling like wolves.
They lit a small fire inside.
Ren stared at the flames. "So… this heir they talked about. You think he's really yours?"
Callan was quiet for a moment. Then:
"I don't know. I had enemies who wanted to use my name. Children raised to believe in me. Someone might've lied to him. Made him think he's my blood."
Ren hesitated. "But if he's not lying?"
Callan looked at him.
"Then I face him. Not as his father… but as the man who ended the war. And if he wants to reignite it…"
He trailed off.
"…I'll stop him."
Ren didn't argue. But he didn't look entirely convinced either.
They slept in turns, one always watching.
And far to the east, at the edge of the ruins of Cindermarch, a figure in black robes stood atop the broken palace gates, eyes glowing faintly with power. The heir.
His followers knelt before him.
"The Betrayer has entered the Scorching Reaches," one of them said. "He draws closer."
The heir smiled.
"Good. Let him come."
He raised a hand, and the ground around the palace shifted. Black pillars rose—ancient defenses, infused with demonic energy. The ruins of the capital began to awaken.
"Let him see what he left behind," the heir said. "And let him witness what his legacy has become."