"Hours at most before complete depletion."
Rhaedor's voice echoed in Kaelen's mind—weaker now, fading with each word.
Above them, through the crack in the ceiling, Councillor Frost peered down into the Vaults.
"We must get you out. Now. Before—"
The sun-stone blazed. Fire erupted from its base, racing up the tubes connected to Rhaedor's suspended form.
"Climb!" Thorne shoved Kaelen towards the crack.
Stone crumbled beneath her fingers as she reached upwards. Three feet down from the opening, she caught a jagged edge whilst her other hand stretched for Frost's grip. He hauled her up.
Below, fire consumed the Vaults—the sun-stone draining Rhaedor's final reserves. Kaelen collapsed on solid ground, gasping for air.
Thorne climbed up beside her, Elena's journal tucked inside his tunic.
Hours. Grandfather has hours.
Frost pulled them both from the crack and gestured towards the courtyard where warriors assembled in darkness before dawn.
"The Peak lies five hundred miles distant. Impossible to reach in time."
Kaelen pushed herself upright, legs shaking.
"Then we ride anyway."
"Which is why I gathered every warrior we have—three thousand strong." Frost watched the courtyard. "They will not follow a deposed commander."
Thorne stared at the warriors below.
"Corvan will not follow me."
Frost looked down at the courtyard, then back at Thorne.
"Then break him."
. . .
Captain Corvan shouted orders to three thousand warriors. Thorne approached.
Corvan's hand went to his sword.
"You hold no authority here."
Thorne kept walking.
"The Council stripped—"
Thorne's hand shot out, locked around Corvan's wrist, squeezed until Corvan's fingers went numb.
"How many real battles have you seen?"
Every warrior in the courtyard stopped moving. All eyes turned.
"Answer me."
Corvan opened his mouth. Closed it.
"None."
Thorne released him and faced the assembled warriors.
"Twenty years past, who led you through the Siege of Blackstone?"
A warrior stepped forward.
"You did, Commander."
Another warrior raised his fist.
"You held the northern gate for three days."
More warriors stepped forward. Thorne raised his hand. The courtyard went silent.
He turned back to Corvan.
"Do you command these warriors? Or do I?"
Corvan met the eyes of every warrior in the courtyard. Every warrior faced Thorne.
"One condition. I ride as your second."
"Done."
Thorne climbed the outer wall steps.
"We ride the Ashmark Trail—five hundred miles through the Blightlands, through Hollowglass Canyon where the heat sears your lungs, through Frostburn Expanse where cold keeps you alive whilst freezing you solid."
He descended.
"Verrian Dain rides ahead with five thousand warriors—nearly twice our number. Most of you will perish on the Trail."
He stopped at the bottom.
"But if we do not ride, everyone dies. Your families. Your children. Everything."
A warrior in the front rank tightened his grip on his spear. Another straightened her shoulders. None stepped back.
"Stay or ride. Choose now."
Not one warrior moved from formation.
Corvan saluted.
"We ride with you, Commander."
Kaelen appeared at his side. The warriors rushed to their horses.
"Hours. Five hundred miles. We cannot—"
"No."
Thorne mounted.
"Two routes reach the Peak. Verrian will choose the swift route. We choose survival."
Kaelen climbed onto her horse.
"We fight regardless."
The gates opened.
Thorne raised his sword.
"For Erathil!"
Three thousand warriors roared. They charged into darkness.
. . .
Verrian watched five thousand warriors assemble below Shadowland's ramparts. General Mordane approached with Korrath and Blackwood behind him.
Verrian led them inside to the war room, where a single candle threw shadows across spread maps.
"We ride through the Ember Corridor."
Verrian traced the route with one finger.
"This puts us three days ahead of Thorne clearing Hollowglass."
Blackwood leaned closer. The candle flame wavered.
"I have never heard of the Ember Corridor."
"The Council burned every reference."
Korrath studied the map, hand on his sword belt.
"What of the girl?"
"I have her pendant. She will come to me."
"I heard she carries dragon fire now."
Mordane watched Verrian's face as he spoke.
"She cannot control it—not until eighteen."
Verrian met each man's eyes in turn.
"Kill every warrior but bring me the girl alive."
"She could burn half our force—"
"She will not."
Verrian waved them towards the door.
"Follow the Ember Corridor exactly. Do not deviate."
Korrath and Blackwood saluted and turned. Mordane remained at the table.
"General. You have your orders."
"I do not believe you."
Korrath and Blackwood stopped. Neither turned.
Verrian kept his gaze fixed on Mordane.
"Explain yourself."
Mordane placed both hands flat on the table, covering the map.
"The Ember Corridor. I have fought in these lands for thirty years."
His eyes lifted.
"There is no Ember Corridor."
The candle flame guttered. Shadows shifted across the walls.
"You are sending us down a false path."
Verrian's hand drifted to his sword hilt.
"Perhaps I have reason not to trust."
Mordane straightened.
"Then tell me plainly. Are you Verrian Dain? Or are you Malachar wearing his face?"
Korrath and Blackwood turned back, hands on weapons.
Verrian laughed—cold, sharp.
"The question proves nothing. If I am Verrian, I say I am Verrian. If I am Malachar, I say I am Verrian."
He circled the table slowly.
"Malachar has lived one hundred and fifty years. He could be you, Mordane, or Korrath, or Blackwood, or any warrior in the five thousand I command."
Verrian stopped beside Mordane.
"So yes, General. I lied about the route."
"You would sacrifice—"
"I would sacrifice anything to keep the true route secret."
Verrian drew his sword. The blade reflected no light.
"Follow the Ember Corridor as ordered, or refuse and I kill you here."
Mordane stepped closer.
"You would kill your own generals?"
"If one of you is Malachar? Yes."
Mordane did not step back.
"How are you certain I am not Malachar standing before you now?"
Verrian smiled.
"Because Malachar cannot replicate three things. Memory, blood, and pain."
He gestured to Mordane's left hand.
"Sixteen years past, you lost two fingers in the Siege of Greyhold. I carried you from the field whilst you screamed about your daughter—Lenora."
Mordane said nothing.
"Could Malachar learn the words you whispered—words no one else heard?"
Verrian's voice dropped.
"'Let me die here. Let me die so she never has to watch me become what I am becoming.' Malachar can steal faces, General, but he cannot steal shame."
Verrian pulled a small vial from his robes. Dark liquid pooled inside.
"I keep blood samples from every commander, taken during binding ceremonies, mixed with iron and salt—elements that react to shapeshifter essence."
He held it to the candlelight.
"Your blood remains unchanged. Still human." He gestured to Korrath and Blackwood. "As does theirs—I tested you all after the last council meeting."
Blackwood moved closer to the doorway.
"Blood can be replicated."
"Not blood taken during a binding ceremony sealed with old magic."
Korrath looked between Verrian and Mordane.
"And the third thing? Pain?"
"Yes."
Verrian turned to Mordane.
"Show them your back."
Mordane's hand went to his cloak clasp.
"Show them."
Slowly, Mordane removed his cloak, unbuckled his chest plate, and pulled his tunic over his head.
His back was a mass of scars. Running down his spine was a mark burned into flesh—a symbol pulsing with faint red light.
Korrath took a sharp breath.
"The Mark of Service."
"I placed it there ten years past."
Verrian traced the symbol. Mordane flinched.
"It burns constantly. Malachar can mimic scars, but he cannot mimic pain that has lasted a decade."
Verrian stepped back.
"You favour your right side when you stand. You roll your shoulders every morning—three times forward, twice back. You drink bitter root tea before bed because it is the only thing that lets you sleep."
Mordane pulled his tunic back on, finished buckling his armour.
"If Malachar took your form, the mark would burn him from the inside out. He would last an hour before the pain drove him to shift."
Verrian looked at all three men.
"Pain proves identity, because pain cannot be feigned."
Mordane finished buckling his armour.
"Then why send us on a false route if you trust us?"
"Because trust is not certainty. I trust you three, but I do not trust the five thousand warriors you command."
Verrian met Mordane's eyes.
"Any of them could be Malachar, so you will lead the main force, make noise, make him believe you carry the true route."
Mordane stared at him, then nodded once.
"As you command, Lord Verrian."
He turned and left. Korrath and Blackwood followed.
Verrian waited. He counted their footsteps until they were gone.
"Still listening, Father?"
The air beside the candle twisted. A voice emerged—ancient, amused.
Well played.
"Did he believe me?"
Mordane almost drew his blade.
"Almost means nothing."
You truly do not know which might be Malachar.
"No."
Verrian moved to a different map, hidden beneath the others.
"But better cautious than compromised."
The Blackvein Pass. Your true route.
"Yes. The safer path."
And if Malachar follows Mordane into the Ember Corridor?
"The wraiths will kill him."
And if he survives?
"Then he is more dangerous than I believed."
The voice grew faint.
You want to know his weakness.
"Tell me."
Malachar cannot be killed with steel or magic. He survived the Breaking.
"Then how—"
One weakness. One flaw.
"What is it?"
The presence vanished.
You will learn it at the Peak, or you will not.
"Wait—"
Gone.
Verrian stared at the hidden map.
Let Malachar face the wraiths, let Mordane lead the main force astray, and by the time anyone reaches the Peak, I will already control the Cradle.
. . .
Lord Draconis stood before two thousand warriors as Riven waited beside him.
"General Velrith. Report."
"Two thousand ready. We ride within the hour."
"The Scorched Way—four days hard riding. That route will bring us to the Blackvein Pass."
Draconis turned to Riven.
"You said you memorised the Hollow map before handing it over to Verrian."
"Yes. I studied every route to the Sundered Peak. I know which paths to take and which to avoid."
Draconis studied him.
"Betray me, and you face worse than any death."
Riven did not look away.
"You promised to restore House Drae."
"I know. You know Verrian will not keep his word."
Riven held his gaze.
"You fought beside Verrian twenty years past."
Draconis looked away.
"I made a mistake. I have spent twenty years preventing what is coming now."
He turned to Velrith.
"We ride immediately."
Velrith saluted and left.
Riven followed Draconis towards the courtyard.
"When the dragon heart wakes—what then?"
"The girl stops it."
"And if she cannot?"
Draconis descended the stairs.
"Then Verrian wins, and we all burn."
Riven kept pace behind him.
"But a day past, you aided Verrian in conquering Erathil. Now you ride against him."
Draconis stopped.
"If Verrian wakes the dragon heart, the Seven Houses fall, and he claims all power. My conquest of the eastern kingdoms becomes impossible."
"So you are using me to stop him."
"I use everyone."
. . .
Malachar stood in the Ember Corridor with ten mercenaries surrounding him. Each carried weapons forged in the old way—blades that hummed with captured lightning, crossbows that never missed.
The cavern walls narrowed on both sides, ancient stone slick with moisture.
Grenn raised his torch higher.
"My lord. Markings."
Malachar moved closer to symbols carved deep into stone—not Council script but something far older, from the time before the Breaking.
He traced one symbol—a circle broken by three lines.
Kade peered over his shoulder.
"What does it mean?"
"A warning in the ancient tongue, from before the Council existed."
Malachar read the symbols again.
"'The in-between devour the living. Turn back or join the stone.'"
Grenn looked at Kade.
"We should listen."
"No."
Malachar studied the map.
"Verrian would not—"
He stopped. The symbols. The map.
Unless.
"Spread out. Search the walls."
The mercenaries moved along the cavern. Torches cast shadows.
"Here! More symbols."
Malachar hurried over to different symbols carved above claw marks—deep gouges in stone.
The symbols read: 'They walk through stone. They feed on breath. They take what makes you alive.'
Below were newer marks, rough and desperate. Malachar counted them.
Forty-seven tallies.
"Forty-seven deaths."
He whispered.
"Someone kept count before—"
At the base of the wall lay human bones—hundreds of them.
Grenn's torch shook in his hand.
"Gods preserve us."
Malachar knelt. He picked up a skull—grey bone, almost translucent, drained of all substance.
He dropped it and stood. The map showed the pass as wide, clear, and safe.
The narrow cavern. The warnings. The bones.
Fool. I walked straight into his trap.
"We turn back. Now."
Breath turned to mist.
Grenn drew his blade.
"Something is moving in the stone."
The walls shimmered. Shapes formed in stone—translucent, wrong, too many limbs.
Kade's hand went to his crossbow.
"What are they?"
Malachar took a step back from the wall.
"Veilwraiths."
He drew his blade.
"Defensive positions!"
The first wraith lunged.
Grenn's blade passed through empty air. The wraith reformed behind him, touched his neck.
Grenn screamed, dropped his weapon, clawed at his throat, and fell.
He did not rise.
Kade loosed his bolt. It passed through a wraith, struck stone, and shattered.
"They cannot be killed!"
Three more wraiths emerged. Six. Twelve.
The mercenaries broke formation and ran.
A wraith caught the first man. He collapsed in a silent scream.
Another took the second, then the third.
Malachar watched his hired killers fall.
"Form on me!"
The remaining four stumbled towards him.
A wraith grabbed one by the shoulder. The man stopped moving mid-step.
Three left.
Malachar spoke words in a language older than Erathil—binding words. The wraiths hesitated.
"What are you doing?"
"Holding them back."
Malachar spoke again, louder. The nearest wraith shuddered, flickered.
Working.
But dozens surrounded them.
Malachar scanned the cavern walls.
"The walls. Climb."
Kade stared at him.
"Do you seek death—"
A wraith lunged, caught Kade. He screamed once, fell silent.
Two mercenaries remained.
"Climb or die."
Malachar ran at the wall, found cracks, and climbed. Behind him came scrambling.
Below, wraiths reached up with limbs that stretched impossibly long.
One mercenary lost his grip, fell. He vanished into their grasp.
One left.
Thirty feet up the cavern wall. Forty.
The wraiths stopped reaching and gathered below to watch.
"Keep climbing."
Torin nodded. His grip shook against the stone.
Fifty feet. Sixty.
Stone crumbled under Torin's hand. He swung by three fingers.
"I cannot—"
"You can."
Seventy. Eighty.
The cavern's edge appeared above them.
Twenty feet remaining. Fifteen. Ten.
Malachar's hand closed on solid ground. He hauled himself over, reached down for Torin.
Their hands were inches apart. Stone crumbled beneath Torin's feet.
He fell. Silent.
Torin disappeared into the shadows.
Alone now.
Ten mercenaries. Weapons beyond wonder. All dead.
Malachar stood and surveyed the wasteland.
The landscape stretched barren before him, but in the distance rose the Sundered Peak.
Movement caught his eye.
Shapes were rising from the wasteland—not wraiths but something else.
Figures made of ash and bone. Dozens. Hundreds.
They turned towards him and began walking.
Malachar drew his blade.
. . .
End of Chapter 21
. . .
Three armies march. One shapeshifter fights horrors that should not exist. And at the Sundered Peak—the dragon heart's pulse grows violent.
Blood and betrayal await in Chapter 22: The Ashmark Trail.