Twelve years later
The Ashlands did not forgive the weak.
Beneath a sky the color of smoldering iron, jagged mountains bled fire into the earth. Gray winds swept across the black dunes, carrying ash thick enough to choke the sky. The people who survived here were fire-forged, like the land itself.
And yet, life endured.
Small villages dotted the wastes of Volkara — scattered enclaves clinging to cracked stone and molten rivers. Terin had grown up in one of them, learning how to survive, how to smile through hunger and pain, and how to walk in the shadow of a myth.
Today, something strange rode the wind.
Terin stood in the village square, head tilted to the sky, as white flakes drifted from the clouds — soft and silent. The first one landed on his cheek. It hissed against his bronze skin, steam curling upward.
Cold. Real cold.
Snow.
Around him, the whispers began.
"The time has come."
"It's begun."
"Gather the Cindermanes. We ride."
Villagers scrambled past, clutching sacks and children, fear etched into ash-dark faces. Bronze-helmed guards barked orders, driving people toward the stables. There, the Cindermanes — great beasts with six hooved legs and glowing manes — stamped and whinnied, sensing the tension.
But Terin didn't move.
He stared at the sky, eyes wide. "It's… beautiful."
A hand grabbed his shoulder.
"Terin!"
He turned to find Sear, taller than most, eyes the color of cooling flame. His face was carved from ashstone, his black hair dusted with snow.
"We need to go. Now."
"What's happening?"
"Nyvalen forces. They breached the outer dunes."
Terin's stomach twisted. Nyvalen. The frozen empire from the north — cold, ruthless, relentless.
They reached the caravan line just as the horns blew. A low, bone-deep sound that froze the air.
On the ridge behind them, pale riders crested the dunes.
White armor gleamed, untouched by ash. Spears shimmered with a faint blue light. The thorned banners of Nyvalen flapped in the wind.
The Cindermane pulling Terin's wagon reared and screamed, its mane bursting into sparks. Flame crackled beneath its hooves as the wagons jolted forward — eight in all, bound for the capital in the south.
Behind them, twelve guards stayed behind.
Their armor was scorched and aged, their weapons old. But the forgemarks still shone faintly across their chestplates. Their blades hummed with the last breath of heat — not magic, not anymore, but memory.
The captain raised his sword.
"Take care of the boy!" he shouted toward Sear. "We'll hold them!"
Sear rose halfway from the wagon, hand on the hilt of his blade. The weapon was dark, etched with glowing veins of emberstone. Terin had seen it flash before — only when things were truly dire.
He thought Sear might leap out.
But after a long breath, Sear sat back.
"They know their duty," he said.
Terin looked back.
The guards charged. Fire met frost. Blades sparked with steam as the Nyvalen spears unleashed bursts of freezing force. The Volkarans fell — one by one — their weapons flickering out as the forge-light died.
But five minutes was all they needed.
A sudden tremor split the earth. A nearby vent erupted. Ash and lava spewed into the air, casting a blinding wall between the fleeing villagers and their pursuers.
The Nyvalen line stopped. Their horses — nimble, pristine — were not built for this terrain.
They did not follow.
Terin watched the smoke rise, jaw clenched. His scar — the old burn curling over his right eye — pulsed. Not with pain, but with guilt.
Twelve years ago. Another village. Another escape.
His fingers gripped the wagon's edge.
"They died… for me."
A warm hand settled on his shoulder.
"Breathe," Sear said quietly.
Terin obeyed. His amber eyes slipped closed. He exhaled.
Around them, villagers murmured.
"Was it because of the boy?"
"Are we safe with him?"
"Is the prophecy real?"
He heard every word.
"We can't keep lying," Terin whispered. "People will get hurt."
Sear didn't flinch. "Hope is what keeps this land alive. Through ash and flame, we hope. Without it—"
He met Terin's eyes. "—we'd already be dead."
Terin said nothing. Then nodded.
Across from him, an elderly woman reached out and gently traced the edge of his scar.
"You're stronger than you know," she said softly. "Embequar's walls still stand. They say the forge-spirits haven't left us yet."
The wagons pressed onward, the glow of the Cindermanes lighting the path beneath a sky that turned from gray to black.
Terin's head slumped onto the woman's shoulder as sleep took him.
Sear sat beside him, hand on his blade. Neither it nor the spirit bound within had stirred.
But soon — they would.