"My lord, the signal—"
"I know." High Sovereign Verrian Dain remained at the tower window—a title he'd claimed in exile, though the throne of Erathil remained beyond his reach. "The Virelle girl found the map."
Captain Vex Korrath's armour scraped against the doorway as he entered.
The violet light had blazed across the southern sky for three full minutes. Every mage in the Seven Kingdoms would have seen it.
Every rival would be gathering warriors and siege engines.
"How long do we have?" Korrath asked.
"Hours. Perhaps less."
Maps covered the desk, marked with red ink.
"Three routes converge on Erathil." Verrian's finger traced where they met. "Every fifty miles—we resupply. We march straight through whilst our enemies waste weeks sailing around the Shattered Coast."
Korrath studied the eastern routes. "The trade corridors."
"Will be ours by midwinter. And with them, every kingdom that depends on eastern grain."
Verrian pressed the scar at his throat—rough tissue where his father's blade had cut.
Altar stones under his knees. His father gripped the ceremonial blade.
"You are too dangerous for this kingdom."
The blade pressed cold against his throat. Fire erupted before the cut could finish. His fire. Golden flames turning dark whilst blood spilt across sacred stone.
His father screaming. Half the Sanctum burning.
He staggered into the night, blood streaming, flames still burning through his skin, whilst the Council's seat collapsed into ash behind him.
Verrian dropped his hand.
"Three kingdoms emptied their treasuries for this. Tonight, they earn their cost."
Korrath studied the maps. "And what shall they receive?"
"What I choose to give them—after I take back my throne."
"King Aldric wants the Blightland border territories—he has three sons and not enough land to divide amongst them. Queen Morrigan wants the coastal ports she lost in the Succession Wars."
"And you promised them all of this."
"I promised them hope. What they receive depends on their usefulness."
"Twenty years gathering warriors. Then, five years ago, intelligence reached me—the Virelle bloodline survived. I have spent those years preparing these routes."
Below, warriors filed from their quarters. Fifteen thousand strong—exiles, mercenaries, and conquered soldiers—moving with precision. They had drilled for this moment for two decades.
Korrath moved to the window. "They have awaited this order."
"They know what we fight for—what Erathil did to me."
Letters with royal seals lay scattered across the desk—each one received within the last six hours. Verrian thrust them towards Korrath.
Korrath scanned them, brow furrowing.
"Lord Caedmon brings his entire host, not merely the forward battalions. Queen Lysandra has diverted her eastern fleet—she was to blockade the coast. Prince Dalmar musters the Ironbound Legion."
"Everyone saw that signal. Every hour that girl carries the map, she grows stronger. They know if they wait, she might become unstoppable."
"And if another claims it first—"
"They lose everything they invested in this war."
Verrian crushed a letter bearing Caedmon's serpent seal and threw it into the hearth.
"Lord Caedmon crossed the Dead Marshes this morning—six thousand cursed warriors. He promises them the map will break the curses rotting their lands."
He lifted another letter from the desk.
"Queen Lysandra's fleet left port an hour after sunset. Forty warships bearing marines trained in city warfare. She believes the map holds the power to raise her coastal cities from the sea floor."
Korrath studied the crushed remnants in the fire. "They will reach Erathil within days."
"The first to claim that girl wins everything."
Verrian moved towards the armour stand.
"The second one arrives just in time to die."
He stopped before the black plate, forged in the same flames that had burnt the Sanctum.
Korrath lifted the breastplate—a ritual they had performed before every major battle.
Each buckle clicked into place.
War horns sounded across the Shadowlands fortress—three long blasts.
Years of waiting.
Tonight, the march begins.
. . .
Gold letters appeared on the window—not written, but burning through the glass itself:
AWAKENED. SHE CARRIES MORE THAN A MAP.
Korrath stepped back. "Through wards that cost three master enchanters their lives to build."
Verrian approached slowly, studying the impossible breach. Five years of blood magic. Five years of sacrifices and binding rituals. Yet these letters burned through as if the protections were parchment.
The letters formed as he watched—gold bleeding through glass.
Not a spell he recognised.
"Someone watches—powerful enough to breach wards that have turned aside hired blades, siege weapons, and enemy mages."
He reached towards the burning letters but stopped. The flames burned wrong—not the heat he knew, but fire older than the laws that bound it.
"Someone who wants me to know they can reach me whenever they choose."
"Shall I summon the mages?"
"Let them watch. I will kill her anyway."
Before he could return to the map, General Mordane entered without ceremony, still buckling his armour. Soot stained his hands from inspecting the siege engines personally.
"Verrian. The warriors are ready. Eight thousand heavy infantry formed in the main courtyard. Two thousand mounted cavalry in the eastern fields under Commander Darious."
He consulted his notes.
"Three siege engines, four battering rams, two siege towers. The engineers estimate six hours to reduce Erathil's outer walls once we arrive."
"The mage corps?"
"Fifty flame mages under Magus Kelvan. Thirty shadow wielders under Magus Thera from the Duskmarches. And the captured ice mages from the north—twenty-three of them, all bound with blood-chains, magical restraints forged in sacrifice, all willing to fight for their freedom."
Verrian studied the northern map where red pins marked conquered territories.
"They fight for what I offer, or they die in cages."
Mordane nodded. "They will fight."
Verrian tested the sword edge against his thumb. Blood appeared on the blade—still sharp.
"The shock troops march within the hour. Five hundred light cavalry, two hundred siege specialists, twenty flame mages. They will strike with speed and kill without mercy."
He traced the route, his bloody thumbprint marking the parchment.
"They ride through the night and reach Erathil by dawn. They establish a line here, three miles from the city walls. Anyone approaching from the south, east, or west meets that line before they reach the gates."
"And the main force?" Mordane pressed.
"Follows at dawn with the siege engines. Eight thousand heavy infantry, supply wagons, the shadow wielders, and the shadow warriors."
Mordane crossed his arms. "We shall have that map by tomorrow's sunset."
"We shall have the map," Verrian corrected, "and the girl's head on a pike beside it."
Mordane placed both hands on the table. "My lord, our northern scouts report strange weather around Erathil. Snow falls inside the ward boundaries, but burns away before touching ground. Fire appears in patterns our mages cannot decipher."
He set down his notes.
"The heat came sudden and fierce. Metal melted in moments. Animals within five miles fled. Our scouts struggled to breathe—as though the air scorched their lungs."
Verrian paused, fingers on the buckle.
"The wards are failing. With the Virelle bloodline reduced to one girl, the protections would naturally weaken."
Korrath approached the map table. "Or powers bound to the bloodline are waking. Our mages felt the earth tremble beneath Erathil. Magic itself warps around the city. Power that matches nothing in our archives."
He leaned over the maps.
"Power that predates the kingdoms."
Verrian wiped his thumb. The blood had dried.
"What sleeps beneath Erathil wakes when a Virelle comes home. The old texts mentioned it—powers sealed away when the Virelles abandoned their seat."
He resumed buckling.
"I expected this."
Verrian faced them both.
"Then we strike before it wakes. Take the map and kill the girl before whatever guards her rises."
. . .
Every flame in the chamber flared—candles, hearth fire, enchanted torches in the hall beyond. They burned three times their height, casting shadows that writhed against the light.
Verrian reached for his sword. The blade burned hot—too hot to touch.
The air warped with heat. Flames writhed across the stone walls, forming words:
YOUR POWER MEANS NOTHING HERE. SHE CARRIES THE MEANS TO UNMAKE YOU.
The heat pressed against them. Sweat ran down Korrath's face. Mordane wiped his brow, breathing hard. The stone walls burned—cold fortress stone now radiating flame's touch.
Three of the most dangerous men in the Seven Kingdoms stepped back from burning words.
Korrath moved beside Verrian. "Magic. Through wards that cost three lives to build." He glanced at the fading letters. "What does it mean? 'The means to unmake you'?"
"It means whatever guards her has been watching all along."
He reached for his helm.
"It means we are not the only ones moving tonight. Sound the horns. The warriors march now."
"My lord, should we investigate these disturbances first—"
"No delays. Every moment we wait, our enemies grow stronger. The shock troops march within the hour."
The burning letters flared brighter.
Verrian gripped the sword hilt, ignoring the heat searing his palm. "What else does she have?"
Every flame died.
The words faded to ash.
Then laughter.
Not from the courtyard. Not from the hall.
From inside the chamber itself—behind them, beside them, surrounding them from no single source.
Verrian drew his sword. His hand went to his throat.
A flash—his father gripping the blade, fire erupting from his hands, the screaming.
"Show yourself."
The laughter stopped instantly—not fading, but ceasing mid-sound.
Korrath and Mordane had their swords drawn, backs together, scanning the chamber. But there was no enemy to strike.
Mordane kept his blade raised. "What was that?" He turned, scanning the shadows. "Show yourself, sorcerer."
Korrath circled the chamber, eyes searching every corner. "What manner of sorcery is this?"
Verrian sheathed his sword with deliberate calm. "A warning. Or a test."
"What manner of test?"
"Whether I would turn back. I shall not."
He studied the scorch marks across the stone. They formed symbols, fragments of writing in a tongue older than kingdoms.
"These wards were built from flame. They should repel all fire—yet these letters burn through them as if they were nothing."
He gripped the sword with both hands.
"Unless whoever sends this knows what happened in the Sanctum. That my wards are built from the same tainted fire that should have killed me."
The flames stopped spreading.
"They are trying to frighten me. Make me doubt."
Korrath watched the burning patterns. "We march now, my lord."
The flames began dying.
Verrian buckled the last armour piece into place.
"Sound the horns. Gather the warriors. We march within the hour."
Mordane sheathed his blade and nodded.
Korrath and Mordane left to carry out his orders.
Verrian stepped towards the door.
. . .
Behind him, one last message formed in the scorch marks on stone:
TOO LATE. SHE IS ALREADY MORE THAN YOU.
Verrian stopped at the doorway, hand on the frame.
He turned back to face the burning message, reading every word again.
He knew this fire. Twenty years ago, in the Sanctum.
The laughter. High-pitched. Mocking. His father's blade pressed against his throat.
The same laughter that had stopped the moment the flames erupted.
The memory faded. His fingers found the scar.
The voice behind the magic. All of it familiar.
"No," he whispered.
The past does not rise. The dead do not return.
But the heat answered him—seeping through stone, through wards, through years of certainty.
A memory he thought he had buried beneath ash and bone.
Verrian walked to the stairs. Fifteen thousand warriors waited below.
He descended into darkness.
At the bottom, he stopped.
The heat followed him down—his own element turned against him.
And in the silence, he heard it again—that laughter, thin as smoke.
"Father."
End of Chapter 8
. . .
Next Chapter Preview: Converging Storms
Three hundred miles south, Kaelen's Hollow Map shows visions of siege engines and a golden-haired commander she recognises from Archive portraits. When her mother's hidden letter reveals her father may still be alive, she confronts Riven in the dungeons seeking answers. But his cryptic warnings leave her with more questions than answers, even as enemy lights begin moving across the distant hills towards Erathil's gates. War is coming. And Kaelen has no idea who the real enemy is.