The first thing Aeren noticed when they surfaced was the silence.
The birds were gone. The sea was still. Even the wind held its breath.
Then he saw them.
Five figures stood on the shore, motionless. Cloaked in gray, faces hidden behind smooth silver masks. They wore no armor, carried no weapons.
And yet, Aeren felt colder than he had standing before the Herald.
Zephren rose first, hands crackling with restrained lightning. "Who are you?"
The center figure spoke, voice distant and echoing.
"We are the Watchers. Sent by the Hollow Crown."
Kaelen's eyes narrowed. "We don't answer to crowns. Hollow or not."
"You may resist. You may fight. But you will listen. The world must decide if you are saviors… or threats."
Aeren climbed from the sea, water trailing from his arms. "And who gave you the right to decide?"
The Watcher's head tilted. "No one. And yet, here we are."
Kiran stepped forward, dark flame swirling faintly around his fingertips. "Try anything, and you'll find out how 'threatening' I can be."
"Not yet," the Watcher said calmly. "But soon."
They vanished. One blink, and they were gone—leaving behind a single silver coin embedded in the sand. A rune burned across its surface: Judgment.
Lyra picked it up, her face pale. "They'll follow us now. Every step."
"So let them," Elira said, tying her wet hair back. "I've got nothing to hide except my terrible taste in seaweed stew."
Back at the village, the mood shifted. The locals who had once welcomed them now whispered behind closed doors. Children were pulled indoors. Shopkeepers served them with eyes averted.
Word had traveled fast.
The Flamebound were no longer just legends or heroes.
They were watched.
---
They left at dawn, traveling inland through mist-covered forests. Lyra led the way with her map of leyline fractures—places where old magic stirred.
"We need answers," she explained. "The Drowned Vault showed us something ancient. If we can find more nodes, we might learn how to harness that kind of magic again."
Kaelen raised a brow. "You mean the magic of weaving? No offense, but I don't think the world's ready to sing kumbaya and hug fire."
Zephren smirked. "Speak for yourself. I'd like to see Kiran try to hug flame."
Kiran deadpanned. "I'd rather hug a wraith shark."
Elira snorted. "Still safer than dating me."
Aeren coughed. "I—uh. Can confirm. Completely worth it, though."
Their laughter cut through the tension like sunlight through fog.
But as they climbed the ridge toward the next vault, they found it waiting for them: a tower of crystal, broken in half.
Burned.
Desecrated.
"They got here first," Bryn said grimly. "Someone's destroying them."
"Someone who knows what they are," Lyra added.
A low hum filled the air.
And then came the voices.
You are not safe.
You are not alone.
The fire you carry is not yours to keep.
They turned in unison—and saw more Watchers, stepping from the shadows like dreams made flesh. These ones carried staffs of mirrored glass, and the world bent around them.
"You cannot stop what is coming," one said.
"But you may survive it—if you listen."
Aeren clenched his fists. "Then start talking."
The Watcher stepped forward and removed their mask.
Revealing a face Aeren hadn't seen in years.
"Mother?" he whispered.
The world shifted.
Again.