The altar shook like a living thing. Stone groaned beneath the weight of its own breaking. Cracks raced across the black surface, glowing at the edges with faint light. Sparks shot upward in bursts, swirling into the night. Each pulse was stronger than the last.Soldiers stumbled back, some falling to their knees, others clutching their weapons as if blades could protect them from fire. Shouts rose, raw with panic. “What is it? Is the rift opening again? No, the fire, look!”The cracks widened, a low rumble echoing deep below. The sound was like a heartbeat, steady, unrelenting, felt in the ground and in their bones.Norra dropped to her knees again, pressing her hands to the stone. Her palms burned but she didn’t pull them back. Tears streaked her face, her eyes wide. “It’s him. I know it. I know it’s him.”John crouched beside her, his silver eyes sharp, his jaw tight. He felt it too, the pulse, the heat, but his voice was steady, measured. “Something’s coming, yes. But whether it’

The fire shuddered. The great column of flame, tall as a tower, trembled as though it would tear itself apart. Sparks burst in every direction. The heartbeat thundered, faster, stronger, rattling armor and splitting stone.Men screamed. Women wept. Some fell to their knees, pressing their foreheads into the ash. Others stumbled back, hands over their faces, crying that the fire would consume them all.The priests raised their arms higher, their voices shrill. “The Saint is here!” they shouted. “The Flame Eternal rises!”But even their cries cracked with fear, for the fire shook like a living beast ready to break free.The column of fire began to fold inward.At first it sank slowly, as if collapsing under its own weight. Sparks spiraled down, drifting like burning snow. The glow dimmed to gold, then to red, the edges shrinking smaller and smaller.A whisper spread through the crowd. “It’s fading. It’s over. He’s gone again.”Some soldiers sobbed in despair. Others sagged in relief, b

The march east did not grow easier. Each day the air grew heavier, darker, as if the very sky bent low with dread. The land was sick beneath their feet. Ash drifted over fields where no fire had been. The rivers they crossed ran black, thick as oil, and the priests whispered that the water carried curses.Soldiers grew silent. At first, they marched with songs and cheers. Now they moved with bowed heads, their boots dragging, their voices hushed. Every sound felt swallowed by the land itself.On the seventh day, they found a village burned to nothing. But unlike the others, this one held no corpses on the ground. Instead, the air carried whispers. Faint, chilling voices rose from the ashes, as if the dead still begged for water, for mercy, for life.The soldiers froze. Some clutched their ears, others fell to their knees. A priest cried out, “The shadow binds their souls! This is Vazquez’s work!”Mason stood in the center of the ruin, silent, his silver eyes scanning the ash. His s

The broken earth still smoked from the last clash, and the cries of the wounded hung faint in the air. Yet no one moved. No one breathed. Every soldier, every priest, every king, all stared at the figure of black fire that had stepped from the east.It was not whole. It was not finished. Yet it stood tall, crowned in flame, its body shifting like smoke made flesh.And when it spoke, the world shivered. “You cannot kill what is not finished.”The words slid into every ear like knives. Men cried out, clutching their heads. Some dropped their swords, stumbling back. Others turned and ran, their screams tearing across the field.The kings shouted, their voices desperate. “Hold the line!” “Stand, you fools!” But their words carried no weight. Fear moved faster than command.Priests fell to their knees, chanting broken prayers. Some wept, some tore at their robes, others stared at the shadow with glassy eyes, whispering, “It is the end. It is the end.”The line buckled. The army was breaki