The horn's cry had not faded before the Thornhold came alive. The corridors, once filled with calm voices and the flicker of idle magic, now rang with the purposeful footfalls of armored resistance fighters moving into position. Crystals embedded in the stone ceiling lit with a deeper hue, shifting from cool silver to deep amber, as if the very walls recognized the urgency. Ethan stood in the war chamber, eyes scanning the illuminated map of the terrain etched into the table before him. His hands trembled faintly, but not from fear. It was the shard again, pulsing, warming, responding to danger like a living flame. It did not speak, not with words, but it whispered in instinct, in the tightening of his gut, in the pull behind his eyes. It knew what was coming. And it was ready.
Commander Veyla stood at the head of the table, flanked by two of her lieutenants, both of them stone-faced and silent. Her eyes, however, burned with focus. She extended a gloved hand over the map and tapped twice on the outer perimeter where the stone lines curved around the ridge. "The Skyborne fleet has moved into formation above the Thorn Rim. Three cruisers. One war barge. They're not attacking yet. They're watching, waiting, like hawks before the strike."
Callen leaned forward, squinting at the markings. "Recon run?"
"They already know we're here," Veyla said. "The barge is equipped with nullfire cannons. If they open up, this entire mountain could collapse before we get anyone out."
Ethan felt the heat build in his chest again, but he forced his voice to stay calm. "Then what are they waiting for?"
"They want you," Lira said from his side. She stood with her arms folded, her hair still slightly wet from the underground spring where they had bathed before the alarm sounded. "Or more accurately, the shard within you. They want you to run. To separate from the others. They think if they pressure us long enough, you'll take the bait."
"And will we?" Callen asked, his voice edged with challenge.
"No," Veyla answered immediately. "We do not play their game. We set our own board. We use the Vale itself against them. Ethan stays here. But he will be visible. We make it look like we are preparing an escape route, and they will bring everything to one point. That's when we strike."
A silence fell over the room. The plan was daring. Reckless, perhaps. But in the eyes of the captains and the fire of the flame within Ethan, it felt right. He had run enough. He had stumbled into this world, this war, without knowing the rules. But now he was beginning to understand the pieces. And he was no longer willing to be just another pawn.
"I'll do it," Ethan said, stepping forward. "Make me the target. Let them come."
Veyla looked him over, as if measuring his soul. "Good. Then we move."
The chamber burst into motion again. Orders were shouted. Runners were dispatched. Spellcasters began weaving layered illusions near the Thornhold's southern tunnel, crafting a convincing decoy: flickering shapes of refugees, carts filled with crates, guards moving hurriedly in formation. A convincing simulation of a desperate escape.
Ethan stood beside Lira at the edge of a stone balcony carved into the mountain's side. From here, they could see the pale outline of the skyships above the vale. Three cruisers shaped like curved talons hovered low, tethered by arcane chains that shimmered with static power. The war barge behind them was far larger, its hull like the ribcage of some massive beast, black metal glinting with glyphs of suppression and annihilation.
"I've never seen them this close," Ethan said, eyes locked on the ships.
"I have," Lira said quietly. "When they burned the western sanctum to the ground. These aren't just ships. They're cathedrals of destruction. The Empire doesn't build for travel. It builds for conquest."
Ethan turned to her. "Were you there?"
She didn't answer right away. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the stone railing.
"My brother died trying to defend it," she said finally. "He was a Lightweaver. Strong. Brave. But he wasn't prepared for what came out of that barge. None of us were."
"I'm sorry," Ethan said, unsure if it was enough.
"It's not about sorry," she said, straightening. "It's about making sure no one else dies the way he did. Blind. Believing they had time."
She turned to face him fully, the wind tugging at her hair, and for a moment her guard slipped. "You carry the shard. You didn't choose it. But now you have it, and you can't walk away from what that means. Not now."
"I don't want to walk away," Ethan said. "But I need to understand it. I need to know what I'm becoming."
Lira reached forward and touched his chest, just over the place where the shard pulsed. "Then listen to it. The shard won't make you into something else. It reveals what's already inside."
The moment between them was interrupted by a sharp cry from above. A flash of light split the sky. The first nullfire cannon had fired—not at them, but at the illusion below.
"They've taken the bait," Callen shouted, running onto the balcony. "Troops are descending near the decoy. War mages. And a high priest. The one they call the Voice."
"The Voice of the Emissary," Lira said, her face hardening. "If he's here, they're serious."
Ethan felt the shard stir again, like a muscle tightening in anticipation. He didn't fully understand what it wanted, but the message was clear. Danger was close. And it was watching him.
"We're deploying now," Veyla said, approaching from the stairwell. "Ethan, you'll remain here with Lira. Callen, lead the assault unit through tunnel four. Strike once they engage the decoy fully."
Callen gave a crisp nod, then clasped Ethan's forearm. "Keep your head down. And if you feel that fire inside you rising, let it burn."
He turned and vanished down the stairs, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow.
Ethan stood beside Lira as the horizon erupted into chaos. The illusion held just long enough to lure the Skyborne troops into position. Then the spell shattered like glass, revealing only traps. The Thornhold fighters struck from the trees, from the air, from underground—using every trick the Vale offered. Explosions of arcane energy ripped through the battlefield. Arrows tipped with spellglass flew in high arcs. Wards flashed, shattered, and reformed.
The Voice moved through the chaos untouched. Cloaked in violet robes, eyes blindfolded, he walked as though the world parted for him. His mouth moved constantly, chanting, weaving nullfields around his guards. Wherever he stepped, the ground died, and the wind stopped.
"He's unraveling our wards," Lira whispered. "He's stronger than before."
Ethan saw him too, and felt a deep wrongness in his presence. Like a hole in the world. The shard inside him recoiled, then flared with heat, pushing back against the nullfields, daring the dark to come closer.
The Voice turned toward them. Though blindfolded, he seemed to see. His head tilted, and he raised one hand. From his fingertips, threads of black flame licked outward.
"Move!" Lira shouted, grabbing Ethan's arm. The balcony exploded behind them.
They fell back into the inner corridor, rolling to their feet amid dust and fire. The skyships had turned their focus toward the cliffside. Another nullfire round crashed against the upper chamber, collapsing the tunnel above.
"We're cut off," Lira said, coughing. "We need to get to the sanctum. If the Voice gets inside, the whole resistance could fall."
Ethan nodded. He didn't hesitate now. No fear. Just fire. They sprinted through the narrowing halls as more explosions shook the mountain. Resistance fighters flooded the corridors, some wounded, some chanting spells, others dragging the fallen. The air was thick with magic and smoke.
At the core of the Thornhold stood the Sanctum Gate. A massive set of double doors carved with symbols older than any Empire. It was here that Ethan felt the shard within him respond most strongly. The doors opened not from keys or commands, but from his presence alone. Light spilled out, warm and golden.
They stepped inside. The sanctum was a circular chamber filled with crystal braziers, each holding a flame of different hue. The walls were lined with inscriptions, and in the center stood a plinth with seven hollow grooves.
"One for each shard," Lira said.
Ethan approached the plinth and reached out. The shard within him flared and left his body like a stream of fire, hovering above the center groove. The flame didn't extinguish. It took shape, like a flower blooming in midair. It hovered, waiting.
The Voice arrived in the outer hall, his chant louder now, his guards laying waste to the final defenders. The door trembled.
Ethan turned to Lira. "If I give it up, will they win?"
"No," she said. "If you use it, we win."
He nodded and stepped back. The shard surged into his chest once more. His skin glowed faintly. His eyes lit with flame. The sanctum responded.
And when the Voice finally broke through the final barrier, Ethan was waiting, not just as a boy who had stumbled into another world, but as a flamebearer standing at the center of an ancient promise.
The war had begun. And he was ready.