The descent from the Frostfang Mountains was slower than the ascent. The cold remained unrelenting, but now it carried an eerie silence—one born not of peace, but of aftermath. The darkness that had infested the heart of the North had been burned away by the Ember Crown, but the land itself bore the scars of shadow magic. Crops would not grow here for seasons, perhaps years. Rivers ran sluggish under thin veils of black ice.
Kaela rode at the head of the column, the Crown nestled over her hood, its fire dimmed but alive. Each step forward was a reminder that victory came at a cost. Behind her, Faelan and Maltherin spoke in hushed tones, discussing sightings of similar darkness stirring in the west.
She kept her gaze on the horizon, but her thoughts drifted to what Malveth had said in the Temple of Frost:
> "This is only the beginning."
At the foot of the mountains, the group made camp in the remains of a ruined keep—once a fortress of the Flameguard, the now-lost order sworn to protect the Ember Crown in ancient days. What remained were fractured walls, collapsed towers, and symbols carved in stone, nearly worn away by centuries of neglect.
That night, as the fire crackled low and the stars wheeled above them, Kaela sat before the flame alone, the others resting or tending to their wounds.
The Ember Crown shimmered faintly, pulsing with warmth that seemed to deepen with her thoughts. She closed her eyes—and was drawn inward.
In her mind's eye, she stood in a great hall of fire. Statues of ancient Flameguard stood sentinel. At the center burned a single ember, small but impossibly bright.
A voice—neither male nor female—whispered:
> "The flame remembers. The crown is not just a weapon—it is a legacy. You are not its master. You are its steward."
Kaela's breath caught. "Then what must I do?"
> "Seek the Kindled One"
The vision vanished, and she gasped, the fire before her flickering wild with sudden wind.
The Kindled One
Kaela summoned the others before dawn.
"I had a vision," she said, as they sat before the fire. "The Ember Crown spoke to me. It told me to seek someone called the Kindled One."
Maltherin frowned. "A title from the First Age. I've seen it in relics. The Kindled One was thought to be a myth—a prophet said to bear the flame in their soul."
Faelan crossed his arms. "A myth doesn't summon you through the Crown. If it's real, we need to find them."
Eryndor, ever steady, asked, "Where?"
Kaela nodded toward the west. "The vision showed a desert. Endless sand, a tower made of obsidian, and a tree burning in the center of it all."
Maltherin's face paled. "That's the Scorched Wastes. The Obsidian Spire stands at its center. It was sealed off during the last war."
Kaela stood, her resolve hardened. "Then that's where we go."
Crossing the Deadlands
Leaving the frost behind, the company rode hard across the wildlands. They passed through burned-out villages and long-abandoned watchposts, signs that the world's wounds ran deeper than they had feared.
In one such ruin, a child was found—barely ten winters old, wrapped in fur and hiding beneath the floorboards of a fallen tavern. She had not spoken in days, but her eyes held a strange glow.
Kaela knelt beside her. "What's your name?"
The girl whispered, "Tess."
Eryndor offered her food, but she ignored it and pointed west.
"They're coming," Tess said. "From the fire beneath."
She spoke no more after that, curling up in Kaela's cloak. They brought her with them, uncertain whether she was cursed, gifted—or both.
Weeks later, the Scorched Wastes loomed before them: a vast, windswept desert where the sun hung low and red in the sky. Sandstorms howled with the sound of screaming voices, and lightning cracked the air with unnatural ferocity.
Here, magic warped reality.
Their first night in the desert was nearly their last. A storm of black fire descended without warning, burning through wards and tents alike. Only Kaela's Crown saved them, its light forming a barrier against the corrupted storm.
Tess stood in the center of it all, untouched, eyes glowing bright.
"She's connected to this place," Faelan muttered. "The flame sings around her."
Kaela said nothing, but in her heart, she feared the girl might be the Kindled One the vision spoke of—or worse, the one who would bring fire to the world again.
The Obsidian Spire
After seven days, they reached the tower.
The Obsidian Spire stood like a blade plunged into the heart of the earth. It rose impossibly high, smooth and dark, with ancient glyphs burning across its surface in molten red. At its base stood the tree from Kaela's vision—blackened and still aflame, though it did not burn away.
Tess ran to the tree and placed her hands upon it.
The fire flared—and the tower's gates opened with a groan that echoed across the desert.
Inside, time bent. The walls shimmered with scenes from every era: wars fought, kingdoms fallen, and bearers of the Ember Crown across the ages.
At the summit, they found a chamber lit by an eternal flame. And waiting there—an old man, skin like parchment, eyes filled with fire.
"I am the last Kindled One," he said. "And you are late."
---
A New Fire, A New War
Kaela stepped forward, uncertain. "The Crown led me here."
The man nodded. "Then the time has come. I have guarded the last secret of the flame, waiting for the one who could bear it without being consumed."
He raised his hand—and flames danced across the floor, forming a map of the known world. Red sparks marked cities. Black embers marked where darkness had already spread. The black embers were multiplying.
"The Shadow King was never the true threat," the Kindled One said. "He was merely a gate. Malveth serves something older. Something vast. A god of cinders and silence."
Kaela's heart chilled. "How do we fight it?"
The Kindled One touched Tess's forehead.
"She is the spark. You are the flame. Together, you will choose whether this world burns—or is reborn."