Far from the mountains and the quiet of the Sanctum, the Dark Valley seethed beneath a blood-red sky. Rivers of ash flowed between jagged cliffs, and the air itself hummed with whispers — voices of things that once were human, now twisted into echoes of their former selves.
Deep within the Obsidian Citadel, a council gathered around a great table carved from black glass. At its head sat Sereth's throne, vast and empty, draped in banners that moved as if stirred by unseen hands.
Five figures stood in the shadows below it — her generals, the remnants of Sereth's fallen kin.
The first to speak was Veyra, a tall woman whose skin shimmered like molten iron, her voice smooth but sharp as broken crystal.
"The boy awakens. The flame of silver burns again."
From across the table, a hulking demon with wings of charred bone growled. Raukor, the Warbringer.
"Then we should end him before he learns what to do with it."
Veyra smiled faintly. "You think it's that simple? The heir of the Silver Flame isn't a child with a toy. He carries her spark."
At the mention of her, silence rippled through the hall. Even Raukor lowered his gaze.
A slender figure cloaked in mist leaned forward — Mareth, the Seer of Shadows. His voice was barely more than a whisper.
"Sereth does not sleep as we do. Her will lingers in him. The boy is not her enemy… he may be her vessel."
The room darkened at the word vessel.
A fourth general, her eyes like black glass, struck her staff against the ground. "Enough riddles, Mareth. If the boy carries her essence, then he must be broken before she takes root again."
Then, the air around the throne trembled — and a voice unlike any other filled the chamber. Cold. Ethereal. Familiar.
"You forget yourselves."
The generals froze. A spectral flame flickered to life above the empty throne — silver and black entwined — forming the faint outline of a woman. Her hair flowed like smoke, her eyes twin stars of ruin.
Sereth.
She smiled, faint and terrible.
"You speak of me as if I am gone. Yet I am closer now than ever."
Veyra fell to one knee. "My queen… the boy—"
"Is mine to test," Sereth said softly. "He walks the path I once did. If he can endure what I could not, then perhaps he will succeed where I failed."
Raukor's voice rumbled low. "And if he cannot?"
Sereth's ghostly smile widened.
"Then he will burn… and I will rise again through his ashes."
The spectral flame vanished, leaving the generals in silence.
For a long moment, none spoke — until Mareth whispered,
"Prepare the legions. The Silver Heir must be guided to his end."
The shadows obeyed.
And far away, beneath the calm of the mountains, Kael shivered without knowing why.