“The wind remembers every hoofprint, even those of ghosts.” “Water… we need water!” The cry rose from the back ranks as the Dortracy caravan dragged through the sands. The storm had carried them east — into the desert the shamans called Sareth Vaal, the Veil of the Gods. The air shimmered with heat; the horizon bled gold. Karan rode at the front, his stallion Kor’Vareth glistening with sweat, mane braided with black cords. The horse’s flanks bore old scars — the marks of their bond. Every Dortracy warrior carried such marks: one on the palm, one on the chest, where their horse’s first blood had touched them as infants. It was not mere tradition. Among the Dortracy, to lose one’s horse was to lose one’s soul. “Slow the march,” Karan ordered, voice cutting through the wind. “The herd breathes as one, or not at all.” He dismounted, running a hand along Kor’Vareth’s neck. The stallion pressed its muzzle against his shoulder — an intimate gesture, almost human. Their breaths

“Every empire claims to bring order. But first, it must kill what it does not understand.” “Ride closer, my king,” Serah warned. “Their formation’s changing.” Karan didn’t move. From the ridge above the dunes, he watched the golden banners rise—wave after wave of armored riders cresting the sands, their lances gleaming under the dying sun. The storm he had awakened at the Silent City still churned over his head, black clouds pulsing faintly with lightning, like the slow heartbeat of a sleeping god. Behind him, the Dortracy gathered in grim silence. Their stallions pawed the sand, uneasy but unbroken. Every man there had followed Karan through hell—through exile, war, and resurrection. Now they stood on the edge of legend. Lyra rode up beside him, the wind whipping her veil loose. Her eyes reflected the gold of the enemy’s banners. “They’re Velannian elites,” she said softly. “The Lion Guard. My father’s war host.” Karan turned his head just enough to meet her gaze. “Then the gods

“Every flame remembers the hand that first lit it.” “Tell me, Karan—how many times can a god drown before the world stops calling him one?” The voice tore through the heat like a whisper wrapped in smoke. Karan’s eyes flew open. Salt burned his lungs. He was half-buried in ash, the tide licking at his armor, hissing where molten embers met seawater. The air smelled of iron and smoke. The ground beneath him pulsed faintly—alive. He forced himself up. Every breath hurt. The horizon shimmered red. Rivers of flame cut across the black plain, spilling light over a valley carved by fire and time. He remembered the fall—the bridge collapsing, Lyra’s hand slipping from his. He had thought the storm would kill him. Instead, it had spat him out here. Karan staggered forward, dragging his sword from the sand. The wind howled through the valley, hot and heavy. Then he saw her. Lyra. Alive. She rode across the molten ridges on a horse of flame, her hair glowing like sunlight through blo

“The world only remembers those who dare to break it.” “Don’t touch it.” Karan’s voice was low, almost a growl. Lyra froze, her hand hovering over the child lying in the ash. The newborn’s skin shimmered faintly—half flame, half storm. Every breath it took made the air tremble. “I said don’t touch it,” Karan repeated. Lyra turned slowly, her voice trembling. “It’s a baby, Karan. Look at it—” “I am,” he cut in, stepping closer. “And that’s no child.” The infant stirred, its small fists glowing blue and gold. The earth beneath it cracked. Sparks rose around them like fireflies. Lyra whispered, “It’s alive.” Karan’s tone hardened. “Alive doesn’t mean safe.” The sky above flickered again, lightning dancing across the clouds. Every flash answered the child’s heartbeat. Lyra met his eyes. “It’s us.” “What?” “The blood. The power. It’s ours.” Karan’s breath caught. “Then the gods aren’t gone they’re reborn.” The wind screamed across the scorched land. Every flame bowed toward

“Empires are not born of peace—they are born of those who survive the fire.”“Did you hear what they’re calling him now?”Serah’s voice was cold, quiet.Lyra didn’t look up. She sat by the dying campfire, her fingers tracing the serpent mark scorched into the ground. The baby slept beside her, wrapped in a torn Dortracy banner.“They call him the Shadow King,” Serah continued. “Some say he’s leading the eastern tribes already.”Lyra’s jaw tightened. “They would follow a ghost before they’d follow a woman.”“He’s not a ghost.”Lyra finally looked up. “Then what is he?”Serah hesitated. “Something the world will never forget.”They had been on the move for days, crossing the shattered plains of Dortra. What once was Karan’s kingdom now belonged to fire and dust.Lyra rode at the front, Kael tied to her chest. The boy rarely cried anymore; the storm seemed to hush when he slept.Serah kept pace beside her. “The tribes to the south are gathering. Word is spreading fast—he’s building somet