The wind had shifted.
Kael sensed it the instant he emerged from the Cradle of Flame. Gone were the dense ash and hush, the air now contained something else—movement. Flickers of wings, crackles of distant power, and far away, thunder that boomed not from clouds, but from marching men.
They were stirring.
He and Lysara stood at the mountain's base, the new blade—Dawnfire—resting across his back. Its presence was not heavy. It felt like it belonged. Its power was still immense, but no longer raw or ravenous. It hummed with intent. With purpose.
And the world was already responding.
"The Flame Forged," Lysara said, scanning the horizon. "I can feel them. Like stars blinking back into the sky."
Kael nodded. "We'll need them all."
---
The first at dawn.
He came as smoke on the horizon, falling from the east with a cloak of skyfire and wings of glass. His name was Velen, but he did not use it. A carrier from before memory, before even Lysara's oldest stories.
He came down in silence, bowed to Kael, and then spoke in a voice that shattered the stone that was beneath their feet.
"You bear the flame as it was intended."
Kael met his gaze. "Will you fight?"
Velen smiled.
"I have waited ten thousand years to complete the war I died in."
---
Two more had arrived by midday.
A fighter shrouded in ice, with double scimitars forged from chilled sunlight. She was Myrrien, the Severed Star—she had held Shadowfire for but a week before succumbing to betrayal and the passing of time, but her soul had remained. Now, she marched alongside Kael, her silver eyes aflame with revenge.
The second was not as. human.
A being of wood and flame, its shape changing with every breath. Orlen, the Hollow Flame, who bore the recollections of every forest-born holder. It communicated in rusts and roots. When it touched Dawnfire, the trees around them flowered for a moment—then blazed with golden leaves.
Lysara observed in awe.
"The sword is calling them back," she said. "You're doing more than shattering a cycle, Kael. You're re-writing history."
He stared out over the land. "We will take all of them. For I have seen the tower. I have seen what he is."
"And what's that?"
Kael's eyes darkened.
"He's not human any longer."
---
They camped that night in the Vale of Ruins—a shattered world destroyed by the sorcerer's first ascension. The stars had still not yet returned, but soft gleams flickered on the horizon as if drawn to the blade's new light.
Kael sat beside the fire, Dawnfire spread out across his knees. The other Flame Forged reclined close by. None of them said a word. They didn't have to.
But then the wind changed.
And Lysara sat up with a start. "Someone's coming."
Kael stood up.
A cloaked figure, limping, clad in black robes cinched with red appeared out of the darkness beyond the reach of the firelight. His face was hidden, but Kael sensed the burden in him. Power. Old power.
And pain.
Lysara unsheathed her sword. "Name yourself."
The man halted at the limit of the firelight and threw back his hood.
A man. Pale. Deep violet eyes. A lightning bolt scar on his brow.
"I was named many names," he told her. "But once… I was Ryn. The Eighth Bearer."
Kael's breath lodged in his throat.
"You forged the Tower," he said softly.
"I was the Tower," Ryn declared, voice rough. "Until he ripped it from me. I served him. I bled for him. But now I bleed against him."
Myrrien took a step forward, frowning. "You betrayed us."
"I was the first betrayed," Ryn spat, a flash of anger in his voice. "He used me. And now I'm here to pay the debt."
Kael took a step closer, studying the man's face.
"Then swear to it."
Ryn knelt, palms open. "I swear it on the flame I once bore. I am yours, Flamebearer. And I know how to topple the Tower from within."
---
A long way off, in the Black Tower's tallest spire, the sorcerer stood before a mirror of obsidian fire.
He saw them assembled.
He saw Ryn.
And for the first time in centuries…
He doubted.
Not in his power.
But in the result.
The coming storm was no longer his to control.