Still running from ghosts, boy?
Verrian stopped.
The air grew warmer—not the natural warmth of campfires, but the oppressive heat that preceded his father's voice.
Korrath had already departed to relay orders. Verrian stood alone near the command fire, watching flames dance against the night.
His hand moved to his throat, then stopped. He forced his hand back to his side.
"I am not running."
No? Then what do you call leading five thousand warriors toward a mountain whilst the girl bleeds through the Blightlands?
"I chose my path with care."
Verrian turned from the fire, scanning the camp where his warriors settled for the night—some sharpening weapons, others checking armour, all oblivious to the voice only he could hear.
"I chose the safe route. The swift route. Whilst Thorne's warriors die in ash and heat, mine march rested and ready."
Safe. Swift.
The voice laughed—thin as smoke, sharp as broken glass. The campfire flared higher, throwing shadows that writhed across nearby tents.
For twenty years, you have planned this. Twenty years gathering warriors, forging alliances, waiting for the girl to awaken her power. And now, when the moment finally arrives, you hide behind caution?
"I am not hiding."
Then why does your hand keep moving to your throat?
Verrian's fingers had found the scar again. He jerked them away and turned so the darkness hid the motion from any watching warriors.
"Because you will not let me forget what you did. What you tried to do."
A warrior passed nearby, nodded respectfully. Verrian returned the nod, waited until the man was out of earshot.
The fire cast shadows against the ground—a blade, an altar, a boy's throat pressed against cold steel.
I tried to save the realm from what you would become.
"You tried to murder your own son."
I tried to stop a monster before it could wake.
Verrian stepped closer to the darkness, kept his voice low, barely above a whisper.
"You do not get to question me. Not after what you did."
Several warriors glanced his way. He raised his voice slightly, as though speaking to himself about the route ahead.
"The Blackvein Pass. Clear terrain. Three days to the Peak."
The heat pressed closer, making sweat bead on his forehead despite the cool night air.
After what? After I saw the truth about your power? After I recognised the hunger in you—the same hunger that consumed the first Flamebearers?
"I am nothing like them."
Verrian walked away from the fire, toward the edge of camp where darkness offered privacy. Behind him, the flames guttered and surged.
Are you not? They promised to protect the realm. They promised their power would keep everyone safe. And what did they create? The Cradle. The bindings. A system that devours the innocent to sustain itself.
Zorander's voice dropped lower.
You tell yourself you want justice. Freedom. An end to the Council's tyranny. But I have watched you these twenty years. I know what you truly crave.
Verrian stopped at the camp's perimeter, staring toward the distant Peak, barely visible against starlight.
"Enlighten me, Father. What do I truly want?"
To prove I was wrong. To show the realm—and yourself—that my blade at your throat was the greatest mistake I ever made.
The stolen pendant lay cold against his chest—inert, lifeless, refusing to acknowledge him. A constant reminder that some powers would never be his.
But deep down, you fear I was right. That the power you carry will consume you just as it consumed those who came before. That is when you finally reach the Peak, when you finally claim the dragon heart's power, you will become exactly what I tried to prevent.
A night patrol passed behind him, their footsteps crunching on gravel. Verrian flexed his fingers.
"Then watch. Watch as I prove you wrong."
I have been watching, boy. For twenty years, I have watched. And I have seen you sacrifice allies, betray friends, lead warriors into death—all in service of this moment.
The shadows at Verrian's feet deepened, spreading across the ground like spilt ink.
So tell me—when you finally stand before the Cradle, when the dragon heart offers you everything you have ever wanted, will you prove me wrong? Or will you prove that my blade should have cut deeper?
Silence stretched. Behind Verrian, the camp settled—warriors finding bedrolls, fires banking to coals, conversations fading to murmurs.
"The Blackvein Pass is the safe route. Three days to the Peak whilst Thorne's force bleeds through hell. By the time the girl arrives—if she survives—I will already control the Cradle."
He turned back toward the camp, walking with measured steps past tents where his warriors rested.
"My warriors are rested. Fed. Ready. Thorne will be broken, desperate, and easy to manipulate. The girl will have no choice but to join me or watch everyone she loves die."
And if Draconis reaches the Peak first?
"He will not. His route adds two days. Enough time for me to secure the summit."
Verrian paused near his own tent, one hand on the entrance flap.
And if Malachar survived the Ember Corridor?
Verrian's hand remained on the flap.
"The wraiths will have killed him. Or the ash-figures. The Corridor was designed to eliminate precisely that threat."
Was it? Or did you merely hope it would?
The heat intensified suddenly, making nearby warriors shift in their sleep, as though disturbed by fevered dreams.
You gamble everything on hope, boy. Hope that Malachar is dead. Hope that the girl will cooperate. Hope that you can control forces that have slept for centuries.
Zorander's voice grew fainter, as though being pulled away by the wind.
I died with a blade in my heart and your fire burning through my chest. But at least I died knowing my purpose—to protect the realm from what I had unleashed.
What will you die knowing, I wonder?
The oppressive heat vanished. The night grew cold again.
Verrian stood outside his tent, hand pressed against his throat, staring toward the Peak's dark silhouette against the stars.
Around him, five thousand warriors slept—none aware of the ghosts among them, none aware of their commander's doubt.
He touched the pendant beneath his armour—cold metal that would never warm for him, never pulse with recognition, never acknowledge his claim to power.
"I will reach the summit first," he whispered to the darkness. "I will control the Cradle. And when this is finished, you will finally be silent."
But even as he spoke the words, he heard his father's laughter—faint, distant, mocking, carried on wind that stirred nothing else in the sleeping camp.
We shall see, boy. We shall see.
Verrian entered his tent, but sleep would not come. Not whilst his father's voice echoed in memory. Not whilst doubt gnawed at certainty.
Not whilst three armies raced toward one mountain, and destiny waited at its peak.
. . .
Malachar collapsed against a boulder, pressing his torn cloak against the wound in his side.
Blood soaked through immediately.
Behind him, twelve ash-figures emerged from darkness, their forms barely visible against black stone.
He had been walking for hours. Perhaps days. Time lost meaning in the wasteland where nothing grew, nothing lived, nothing marked one moment from another.
The Peak rose ahead—close now, perhaps five miles distant. But five miles might as well be five hundred with ash-figures hunting him.
Malachar drew his blade with his good hand. The other hung useless at his side, three fingers broken from the last fight.
The ash-figures stopped thirty paces away. Watched. Waited.
"Come then," Malachar said. "Finish it."
None approached.
He realised they were not attacking. They were herding him.
Away from the Peak. Away from Verrian. Away from his vengeance.
Malachar pushed himself upright, blade raised.
"I will not be turned aside."
He charged.
The ash-figures scattered, reformed behind him, drove him back the way he had come.
Again, he charged. Again, they turned him.
An hour passed. Then two. Malachar fought until his good hand could barely hold the blade, until blood loss made the world swim, until he could no longer tell which direction led toward the Peak.
Finally, he fell.
The ash-figures surrounded him. Did not attack. Simply stood watching as his blood soaked into the black earth.
Verrian. I will reach you.
But awareness faded, and the ash-figures remained, patient as stones, whilst Malachar's vengeance died with the light.
. . .
"We descend now. Before the sun climbs higher."
Thorne stood at the canyon's edge as dawn broke. Kaelen joined him, stared down into the shimmering heat already rising from the stone.
"The canyon will be worse in full sun."
"Then we move fast."
"Commander. Look at them."
Behind them, one thousand four hundred and twenty warriors lay scattered across the stone—some sleeping, some too exhausted to sleep, all marked by the Blightlands' toll.
"They have marched through ash that choked them. Climbed a wall that killed hundreds. And now you ask them to cross that."
She pointed into the canyon where heat rose in waves.
"Half will die before we reach the other side."
"I know."
"And you will order it regardless."
"Yes."
She moved closer. "Do you feel anything for them? These warriors who followed you into death?"
"I feel what a commander must feel. Nothing more."
"That is not an answer."
Thorne turned from the canyon's edge.
"It is the only answer I can afford."
He walked amongst the sleeping warriors, checking weapons, counting water supplies, weighing losses against distance.
"You have changed, Commander. Since this race began."
"The world changed. I adapted."
"No. You hardened."
Thorne did not respond.
"The man I followed from Erathil would have mourned the warriors we lost on that wall. The man I follow now counts them like supplies."
"The man you followed from Erathil had time for sentiment. The man you follow now does not."
Thorne turned back to the canyon's edge, stared down into the heat.
Kaelen remained beside him, watching the shimmering air rise from the stone below.
. . .
The canyon earned its name from the way heat rose from stone, creating walls of shimmering air that twisted sight—hollow, empty, unforgiving.
They descended into the canyon as the sun began its climb overhead.
Heat rose from the stone floor in waves. Warriors gasped, stumbled, and reached for waterskins with shaking hands.
Within minutes, sweat poured from every warrior. Within an hour, the first collapsed.
"Leave him. Keep moving."
The canyon floor was smooth stone that threw heat back at them. No shade. No shelter. No escape.
Warriors began shedding armour. Chainmail. Breastplates. Helms. Anything that held heat.
A trail of metal marked their path.
Kaelen's vision blurred. One step. Then another.
Beside her, a warrior stumbled, caught himself, and kept walking.
Then he stopped. Swayed. Fell face-first onto burning stone.
Two others lifted him, dragged him forward for a hundred yards before his weight became too much.
They left him where the sun would finish what the heat had started.
Corvan staggered forward, each breath rasping through the searing air. "Commander—this will kill us."
"We must endure."
Thorne pulled his waterskin free, took one swallow, and passed it to Corvan.
"No warrior drinks more than twice before we clear the canyon."
"How far?"
"Ten miles. Half a day at this pace."
"We will not survive half a day here."
"Then we will survive less."
They walked.
The stone beneath their feet grew hotter. Some warriors removed their boots, walked barefoot until their feet blistered and bled.
Then they wrapped their feet in cloth torn from tunics and continued.
Hours passed. Warriors fell constantly now—some from heat, some from thirst, some because their will broke.
A woman warrior collapsed to her knees, stared at the shimmering air.
"I see water. There. Do you see it?"
Kaelen knelt beside her.
"There is no water."
"No. I see it. A lake. Cool. Clear."
The woman stood, walked towards empty air, reaching for water that did not exist.
She walked twenty paces, fell, and did not rise.
More hours passed.
By the time they reached the canyon's far side, they had lost another three hundred and seventy warriors.
One thousand and fifty survivors.
One third of what they had started with.
Thorne led them out of the canyon as the sun began setting. Cool air struck them.
Warriors collapsed. Some wept. Others stared ahead, their faces showing nothing.
Corvan approached with the count, his own face burned raw.
"One thousand and fifty, Commander. We have lost nearly two thousand warriors."
Thorne studied the survivors sprawled across the ground.
"They will do."
"For what?"
"For what comes next."
Ahead, through the twilight, white ice stretched to the horizon.
The Frostburn Expanse.
And beyond it, rising through clouds like a dark promise, stood the Sundered Peak.
At its summit, red light pulsed.
The dragon heart.
Still beating.
Still waiting.
Kaelen stared at it, felt a pull at her chest. A summons.
"How far?"
Thorne followed her gaze.
"The ice is thirty miles across. The Peak rises another day's climb beyond."
"Will we make it in time?"
"We will reach that summit."
He turned to face the exhausted warriors.
"Rest tonight. Tomorrow we cross the ice. And then we climb."
Kaelen looked up at the distant glow.
Hold on, Grandfather. I am coming.
Lightning split the sky above the Peak. Thunder rolled across the expanse.
The dragon's heart pulsed once. Twice.
Then stopped.
Silence fell across the expanse.
Thorne stood.
"What just—"
The heart blazed so bright it turned night into day. Light flooded across the expanse, the mountains, the sky itself.
Warriors cried out, shielded their eyes.
When the light faded, the dragon's heart beat again—faster now. Unsteady.
Kaelen pressed her hand to her chest. Her chest seized. She collapsed.
"Kaelen!"
Thorne caught her as she fell.
"I can feel it. Grandfather's light. It is fading."
"How long do we have?"
She looked up at him, blood running from her nose.
"Hours. Perhaps less. When his light dies, the dragon heart wakes. Everything ends."
Corvan moved between Thorne and the warriors.
"Commander. We need rest before—"
"No."
Thorne pulled Kaelen to her feet.
"We cross the ice now. Full march."
"The warriors cannot—"
"The warriors will."
Thorne faced the exhausted survivors.
"That light—the sun-stone failing. When it stops, Rhaedor dies. And when he dies, the dragon heart wakes. The last seal breaks."
He pointed at the ice.
"So we cross. Now. And anyone who falls stays fallen."
Warriors pulled themselves upright despite exhaustion, despite pain.
Because they had come too far to stop.
Thorne took the first step onto the ice.
Then stopped.
Ahead, perhaps a hundred paces onto the Frostburn Expanse, figures moved in the darkness.
Not one. Many.
Skeletal forms rose from the ice, crowned with blue fire.
Corvan drew his blade.
"What are they?"
The figures turned towards them. Blue fire burned where eyes should be.
One of them spoke in an ancient tongue, the sound like breaking ice.
"This ice is forbidden ground. We must turn back." Kaelen's voice shook as she translated the words.
"And if we do not?"
The ice-beings drew weapons made of ice that glowed with cold light.
The lead figure spoke again in that ancient tongue.
"Then we die here," Kaelen spoke the translation quietly.
Thorne looked at the ice-beings, then at his exhausted warriors, then at the glowing heart atop the distant Peak.
He raised his sword.
"Tell them we are not turning back."
. . .
End of Chapter 23
. . .
Next Chapter Preview: The Frostburn Expanse
Skeletal ice-beings rise from the frozen waste, and Kaelen speaks an ancient tongue she never learned. Thirty miles of ice crossed without a single loss—but on black stone beyond, Corvan speaks accusations that cannot be taken back. Thorne's blade answers with blood. In the wasteland, Miriam warns Malachar of Verrian's true plan: to wake the dragon heart. At the Peak's base, war horns echo as five thousand warriors begin their ascent.