Back in the shrine, The boy collapsed, Ash poured from his mouth. The crown-shard cracked,“I just wanted to be... remembered,” he said. Lysa knelt beside him. “You are,” she said softly.He smiled one last time, Then faded. Ash covered everything, The shrine had collapsed inward after the ritual. No stone stood on stone. Bones had vanished into dust. Only the altar remained cracked, smoldering.And carved into its face: A new sigil, One no one recognized,Not from any codex, Not from any known flame. Kaelion stood over it, sword drawn. “Thirteen,” he muttered. “There were only twelve known Soulbrands in recorded history. Twelve classes. Twelve paths.”Rashford stared at it. The sigil shimmered, resisting identification—twisting each time they tried to name it. Lysa knelt beside the altar. Her hand hovered above the mark, not touching. “He left it behind. His memory. His will.”Aelira frowned. “You mean... this is his Soulbrand?”Lysa shook her head. “No. This is mine. The one I would’v

The Thirteenth Brand had gone quiet, But Rashford hadn’t. His sleep came in seconds now snatched between breaths and every dream was the same: a throne made of melted Soulbrands, and the Masked One offering him a seat. “We don’t rise to rule,” the Masked One whispered each night.“We rise to remind them: power doesn’t need permission.”When Rashford awoke, the mark pulsed like a heartbeat, He no longer trusted sleep. The aftermath of the attack had revealed more than just bodies. Beneath the collapsed floor, the Scribes uncovered a second vault. One even they hadn’t known existed.It was sealed with a lock none of them could open. Until Rashford touched it, The stone whispered: “Welcome, Thirteenth.” And split open, Inside: a map.A city that didn’t exist anymore, But had never fallen, Cindralis. Lysa traced the old coordinates. “This can’t be right. Cindralis was wiped off the record two centuries ago.”Kaelion studied the glyphs around the border. “No... It wasn’t destroyed. It was

The battlefield was a scorched plateau, ringed with molten stone and the scent of burnt prophecy. The three Flameborn moved like death. Each step they took rewrote the terrain rivers of fire spiraling around their feet, air curling in protest.Rashford stood at the center of the heatstorm, his Unwritten Brand glowing down his arm like ink forged from starfire. He didn’t run, He listened, And the Brand began to hum.The Flameborn AttackThe first charged, a woman clad in burning sapphire mail. Her blade screamed with compressed fate a sword forged from someone else’s death. Kaelion moved to intercept, but Rashford raised a hand. “Let me.” He stepped forward and vanished No flash, No leap, Just absence.He reappeared behind her. The Unwritten Flame flared, and her brand flickered momentarily confused, like it didn’t recognize the enemy. His palm touched her back, No explosion Just silence. And she fell to her knees, eyes wide with confusion. “My flame” she whispered. “Where did it go?”

The maps didn’t show it, The old histories called it “dead ground.” Vault soldiers called it “the Burned Belt.”But among the Brandless, it had a name passed down in whispers: The Unforgiven Lands.A place where the flame no longer obeyed, Where even the branded feared to burn.March of the BrandlessThousands followed Rashford now tribes, exiles, unbranded children, wandering warriors, outcast scholars.They needed a home And all roads led here. Aelira rode ahead, her twin blades crossed behind her back. “No one’s come out of this place in generations.”Kaelion grunted. “Because the Vault made sure of that, They marked the soil with forbidden glyphs.”Rashford touched the Unwritten Brand pulsing up his arm. “I’ll unmark them.”At the EdgeThey reached the boundary at twilight. A wall of scorched trees formed a perimeter. Beyond that: silence. A silence so deep it unraveled sound.Lysa whispered, “It feels like the land’s been abandoned by fire.”Rashford stepped forward and placed his

There are stories even the branded don’t tell.Legends of those who never took the flame Because they didn’t need it. They judged by law alone Without emotion, Without mercy, Without fire. They were called the Black Tribunal And after two centuries of silence They were walking again.Elsewhere – The Vault’s Hidden SanctumA room carved from obsidian, Flame did not light It lit itself. Twelve thrones stood in a circle Only five were occupied The rest had never returned. They wore no symbols, No runes Only robes darker than night and gloves stitched with silence.The First Crown stepped forward.“He is rewriting structure.”One of the Tribunal looked up.“Then he must be erased.”Another nodded.“We judge him unfit to burn.”Rashford’s Camp – The Calm BeforeThe winds had stilled, The Brandless built tents of woven bark, conjured water from stones, sang songs of power never taught in schools.A girl lit a campfire without flint, without rune, without asking. Rashford watched it all with