The sun had barely crested the mountains beyond Cindermarch when the first whispers reached Callan.
They came not from soldiers or scouts, but from refugees—those who had once fled the city before the Thronefire's fall and were now returning in cautious trickles. Peasants, traders, even monks from the northern ranges… all spoke of the same thing: masked figures in ash-colored robes gathering in the forests, temples desecrated with strange sigils, and towns mysteriously going silent overnight.
Ren entered the war chamber as Callan stood hunched over a hastily drawn map of the borderlands. "They're calling themselves 'The Ashen Order' now," Ren said, throwing down a blood-stained scroll. "Looks like they've begun recruiting openly in the eastern provinces."
Callan didn't look up. "Open recruitment? That's bold."
"Bold, reckless, and effective," Ren replied. "We've already lost two scouting parties trying to get close. These aren't just remnants, Callan. They're organized."
Callan's fist clenched. The Ashen Order. The shadow that had once propped up the Thronefire now moved in plain sight. Without its anchor, it had fractured—but not died. The most dangerous weeds grew from scorched soil.
He finally spoke, "We'll need more than swords this time."
Ren raised an eyebrow. "You thinking magic?"
"I'm thinking counter-insurgency," Callan muttered. "Espionage. Sabotage. Before they can root themselves too deep."
Elsewhere: The Citadel of Ash
Deep in the Virestone Mountains, hidden in a rift between two jagged peaks, the fortress known as the Citadel of Ash pulsed with unholy power. Built from obsidian and scorched bone, it exuded menace. Inside its great hall, torchlight flickered across a row of kneeling acolytes—silent, robed, faces hidden behind soot-colored masks.
At the far end of the hall, seated on a throne of petrified flame, was the man known only as The Severed Prophet.
He spoke in tongues not heard for centuries, his voice like burning parchment. "The Thronefire is extinguished… and yet the vessel still lives."
An acolyte rose. "General Callan Routh."
"Yes," the Prophet hissed. "The last ember. The final obstacle. Burn him… and the Order shall inherit the world."
He stood, raising both hands. A black flame ignited in each palm, swirling with hatred. "Send the Pale Hand. Let the cities see what rises from ash."
The kneeling acolytes chanted in unison, and somewhere deep below the Citadel, something monstrous stirred awake.
Back in Cindermarch
Callan walked the streets of the recovering capital. Despite the rubble and ash, people were rebuilding—roofs being repaired, market stalls reassembled, laughter returning in brief flashes.
But he didn't trust the peace. Not yet.
In a quiet alley off the merchant quarter, he met with an old contact—Seris Vayn, once a master of whispers in the former regime. Now a smuggler and information broker with too many knives and not enough scruples.
"You look like hell," Seris said, leaning against a crumbling wall.
"I've been through it," Callan replied. "I need eyes in the east. Inside the Ashen Order."
Seris whistled low. "That's not a simple ask. They slit throats for speaking their name."
"I'm not asking for couriers. I need someone who can get close. Someone who can find their leadership."
Seris narrowed her eyes. "And if I say no?"
"I won't ask again," Callan said quietly.
After a long pause, Seris sighed. "Fine. But this won't come cheap, and I'll need my old crew reinstated."
"You'll have it," Callan promised. "Just get me a way in."
One Week Later
The report came at midnight.
Ren burst into the command tent, face pale. "They've struck Belmire."
Callan looked up sharply. "Belmire? That's thirty leagues east."
"Or was," Ren said grimly. "It's gone. Razed to the stone. Survivors say it wasn't an army—it was one man. A man with ash-white skin, no face, and a scythe of molten iron."
Callan's heart dropped.
"The Pale Hand," he whispered.
The name echoed from old tales. A weapon of the ancient cults. Not a man, but something made. A horror from before the Empire. Said to be death given breath.
"We ride at dawn," Callan said, rising.
Ren stared. "You want to chase that thing? With what army?"
Callan looked toward the eastern horizon. "We're not chasing it. We're warning the next town before it gets there."
On the Road to Valmere
They rode hard, Callan and a handpicked company of fifty. Veterans, scouts, saboteurs. No banners. No trumpets. Just grit and steel.
Valmere was a farming city, not a fortress. If the Ashen Order came, it would fall in hours.
As they approached the town, smoke already darkened the sky. But it wasn't from fire—it was from barricades. The townsfolk had heard the rumors. They were arming themselves with pitchforks and homemade blades.
Callan dismounted as children watched him from behind hay carts. Their eyes were wide with fear and awe. For many, he was a myth already—a fallen general returned from exile.
He met with the town's steward, a wiry man named Fennick. "You have maybe a day before they come," Callan said without preamble.
Fennick nodded. "And what do we do?"
Callan looked at the crude defenses, the anxious men and women pretending to be soldiers. "We hold. Or we burn. There's no third option."
Nightfall
The Pale Hand arrived under moonlight.
He walked alone across the fields—no army, no sound. Just him. As if the land itself parted for his approach. His body glowed faintly, runes carved into his flesh like molten tattoos. His face was smooth, featureless, save for two pits where eyes should have been.
Callan stood atop the gate, watching the figure approach. "He's testing us," he murmured to Ren. "Seeing if we'll break before he lifts a finger."
"Maybe we should disappoint him," Ren said, gripping his bow.
"No," Callan said. "We wait."
The Pale Hand stopped ten paces from the gate. He raised his hand—long, skeletal, fingers made of white ash—and pointed. At Callan.
And then he spoke—not in words, but directly into Callan's mind.
"The Order remembers your flame. We have come to snuff it out."
Pain shot through Callan's skull. He staggered, clutching his temples, blood trickling from his nose. Ren caught him.
"You okay?" Ren asked, alarmed.
Callan nodded, though his vision swam. "He spoke. In my mind. He knows who I am."
The Pale Hand lowered his finger.
And then the ground split.
Not an explosion. Not magic.
Something ancient emerged.
From the earth rose what looked like a tree made of bone and fire—twisting limbs clawing toward the sky, each branch ending in a burning skull. The people of Valmere screamed as the bone-tree screamed with them, mimicking their terror with a chorus of mockery.
Ren drew his sword. "I think we just met the real army."
Callan gritted his teeth. "No more running."
He leapt from the gate with a cry, sword drawn, charging straight for the Pale Hand.