Night fell like a knife in the back.
There was no twilight in these lands—only the sudden drowning of light, as if the sky itself feared what walked the world by dark. The Redborn moved east now, away from the spire and its seductive occupant. Her blood burned with unanswered questions, yet cooled at the memory of the Puppeteer's touch.
He knew her. Too well.
And that terrified her more than any fire-wielding zealot or bone-chanted necromancer.
The land she entered now was barren scrubland, littered with ruins like bones bleached by centuries. A broken aqueduct stretched across the moonlight like the ribcage of a dead titan. Winds howled through shattered windows and hollow towers, carrying the sound of distant weeping that never stopped.
She found shelter beneath the wreckage of an old watchtower. Stone walls, barely intact. A half-roof. Enough.
She huddled near the crumbled hearth and tried to rest—but sleep eluded her.
Every time she closed her eyes, her own hands reached for her throat in dream. Blood flooded her mouth. Voices whispered from her veins.
They chanted a name.
Not one she knew.
But one she feared.
She woke before dawn.
And wasn't alone.
A man sat across from her, arms folded over his knees, cloaked in a tattered gray mantle. He hadn't lit a fire, hadn't spoken, hadn't stirred. Yet he was there, as if he always had been.
She rose swiftly, ready to defend herself.
"Easy," the man said, holding out a hand. "If I wanted you dead, I'd have let the fire priests find you last night."
She narrowed her eyes. "Who are you?"
He pulled back his hood.
He was older than she'd expected—white at the temples, scarred beneath both eyes, with a gaze that had seen too much to blink easily. He bore a single tattoo across his throat: a blood-red spiral, fading at the edges like memory.
"No one," he said. "And that's how I've survived this long."
She didn't lower her stance.
"Spy for the Church?" she asked.
He smirked. "They don't use ghosts like me. I was burned out of their records two wars ago. And I've no love for the demon behind their holy flame."
Her expression shifted. "You know about him?"
He nodded.
"I know more than you, Redborn."
Her breath caught. "You know who I am?"
"I know what you are. But I also know you're not ready to hear it." He rose slowly, as if every movement ached. "You've seen the spire. Spoken to the Puppeteer. That's more than most live long enough to regret."
She studied him carefully.
"You're not afraid of me."
"No," he said. "I'm afraid of what you'll become."
She looked down at her hand.
The veins glowed faintly in the pre-dawn dark.
"You think I'm a monster."
"I think you're a mirror. And everyone sees a different monster in their own reflection."
She finally relaxed her stance—but only slightly.
"Why are you here?"
"To warn you. The Church's High Inquisitor rides for the Lowlands. He has a new toy—some relic dredged from the Sunken Vaults. They call it The Ember Cage." He spat to the side. "It traps blood magic. Locks it in place. Like freezing fire mid-burn."
She frowned. "You think they'll use it on me?"
"They're not hunting you anymore," he said. "They're coming for war. And wherever the war begins… you'll be in the middle of it."
She nodded once. "Then I'll break it."
He smiled grimly. "Good answer. Bad odds."
He turned to leave, cloak fluttering behind him.
"Wait," she said. "You never told me your name."
He paused.
"I haven't used it in years. But once… I was called Ashren."
"Ashren," she repeated. "Will I see you again?"
"If you live long enough," he said over his shoulder. "Maybe."
And then he was gone—fading into the mists like a man already forgotten.
She stood alone once more.
But something had changed.
There was purpose now—not just survival.
The blood inside her sang again.
And its song was war.