The world did not wait long to respond.
Word of the Flamebound's victory over the Herald spread like wildfire—across the fractured kingdoms, the secret academies, the wandering tribes, and the halls of the Hollow Crown.
The Hollow Crown was not a place. It was a throne with no seat, a council with no king, a power that lived in shadows. Old rulers whispered of it in fear. New ones pretended it was myth.
It was not.
High atop the spires of Miradon, deep within the shattered halls of the Silver Order, the council met. Twelve chairs circled an obsidian brazier, each one occupied by a cloaked figure save for one—Chair Thirteen.
Vacant.
"Emberfall has awakened," rasped the Seer. Her voice was sand and wind, and her eyes held galaxies. "The Flamebound live."
"They were meant to balance the world," said the Lord of Ash, fingers drumming against steel gauntlets. "But balance invites rebellion."
A figure in white leaned forward. "And rebellion invites opportunity."
Silence.
Then the eldest among them, known only as The Masked, spoke. "Send the Watchers. Let the world see if these young bearers are heroes… or weapons."
---
Meanwhile, in a fishing village nestled against the Sapphire Coast, Aeren was trying very hard not to fall off a boat.
"I thought you said you knew how to sail!" Elira shouted over the wind.
"I said I'd read about sailing! That's not the same thing!"
The boat pitched wildly as Zephren tried to control the wind. "Stop yelling! It only encourages the storm!"
Bryn, in the back, was enthusiastically arguing with a seagull over dried fish.
Lyra and Kaelen stood on the prow, perfectly balanced.
"Why are we here again?" Kaelen asked.
"There's a ruin under the sea. Supposedly, it contains echoes of pre-Forge magic," Lyra replied. "The locals call it the Drowned Vault."
Kiran, sitting cross-legged on the mast, opened one eye. "Why does everything we do sound like the title of a tragic ballad?"
Elira grinned. "Because we're dramatic, obviously."
They dropped anchor near a jagged reef. The water shimmered with faint magic. Shapes moved below—too big to be fish, too graceful to be sharks.
The Drowned Vault called to them.
Lyra cast a spell, wrapping them in shimmering bubbles of breath. One by one, they dove.
Underwater, the world changed. Colors deepened. Sounds became sensations. And the Vault rose before them—a tower of coral and glass, etched with glyphs that shimmered as they approached.
Inside, time felt suspended. Memories whispered along the walls. Magic thrummed.
And in the heart of the Vault, a crystal pulsed with ancient light.
"A memory node," Zephren breathed. "Older than the Forge. Older than the kingdoms."
They reached out.
Flashes filled their minds—visions of a world before fire, before light. A time when magic was born not of conflict, but harmony. A place where bearers were not warriors… but weavers.
But the vision ended in shadow.
A voice echoed.
"They will come for you. Not because of what you've done. But because of what you might become."
The crystal shattered.
And above, on the surface, the Watchers arrived.
Cloaked in gray. Faces hidden. Eyes like mirrors.
The Hollow Crown had made its move.
And the next game had begun.