The dream returned with fire.
Aren woke gasping, his fingers clawing at the coarse blanket beneath him as if he were still sinking into ash. The taste of smoke clung to his tongue, bitter and metallic, and for a moment he could not tell whether he was awake or still trapped within the burning halls of his vision.
The mark on his chest throbbed.
Not a sharp pain—no, this was worse. It was a deep, pulsing heat, like an ember buried beneath flesh, breathing slowly, patiently. Aren pressed his palm against it, feeling the warmth seep into his skin.
The dawn had not yet broken. Pale gray light crept through the cracked shutters of the old watchtower room where he slept, painting long shadows across the stone floor. Outside, the wind whispered through the ruins of Valecross, carrying the scent of frost and decay.
"You're awake earlier than usual," came a voice from the doorway.
Aren turned sharply. Kael stood there, arms crossed, his cloak draped loosely over one shoulder. The scar along his jaw caught the dim light, making him look carved from stone.
"I didn't hear you enter," Aren said.
Kael's lips curved faintly. "That's the point."
Aren sat up, steadying his breath. "It happened again."
Kael's expression hardened. "The dream?"
Aren nodded.
He did not need to describe it. Kael already knew—the flames swallowing the throne room, the crown cracking apart in a scream of metal, the shadowed figure watching from beyond the fire. Every time the dream returned, it brought more detail, more clarity. And every time, the mark burned hotter.
Kael stepped inside and shut the door behind him. "The elders in Ashmere used to say the dreams grow stronger as the past draws closer."
Aren scoffed weakly. "The past is dead."
Kael met his gaze. "So was the First Crown."
Silence stretched between them.
Aren rose and pulled on his tunic, his movements stiff. "You didn't come here just to check on my sleep."
"No," Kael said. "Scouts returned before dawn."
Aren paused. "And?"
"The High Citadel stirs. Banners were raised last night."
A chill ran through Aren, colder than the morning air. "They've found us."
"Not yet," Kael said. "But they're searching. Systematically."
Aren clenched his jaw. The High Citadel did not move without purpose. If they were searching, it meant someone had spoken—or something had awakened.
"The mark," Aren said quietly. "They feel it, don't they?"
Kael didn't answer immediately. He walked to the narrow window and looked out over the broken city, where stone towers leaned like dying giants. "The crown was never truly destroyed," he said at last. "Its power fractured. Scattered. And you…" He glanced back. "You carry one of those fragments."
Aren's hand drifted again to his chest. "I never asked for this."
"No one ever does."
They left Valecross before sunrise.
Mist clung low to the ground as they moved through the skeletal streets, past toppled statues and shattered archways. Once, this city had been the outer jewel of the old empire—a place of music, banners, and trade. Now it was a graveyard of ambition.
As they crossed the southern gate, Aren felt it again.
A pull.
It wasn't physical, not exactly. It was like a memory tugging at his bones, a direction without distance. He slowed.
Kael noticed instantly. "What is it?"
"The mark," Aren said. "It's… calling."
Kael studied him carefully. "Where?"
Aren turned his gaze east, toward the mountains barely visible beyond the fog. "That way."
Kael exhaled slowly. "Then that's where we go."
"You're not even going to question it?"
Kael adjusted the strap of his sword. "I stopped questioning fate years ago."
By midday, the fog burned away, revealing the jagged silhouette of the Emberfall Range. The path narrowed as it climbed, winding between sharp stone and dead trees whose bark had blackened long ago.
"This place feels wrong," Aren muttered.
Kael nodded. "It was one of the first regions scorched during the Shattering."
Aren swallowed. "By the crown?"
"By those who wore it."
They climbed in silence after that.
The higher they went, the stronger the heat beneath Aren's skin became. Sweat beaded along his brow despite the cold mountain air. Every step felt heavier, as if the land itself resisted him.
At last, they reached a plateau carved into the mountainside.
At its center stood a structure half-buried in rock—a circular stone chamber, ancient and cracked, its surface etched with symbols Aren did not recognize yet somehow understood.
"This is it," he whispered.
Kael's hand tightened on his sword hilt. "A remnant vault."
Aren stepped forward without thinking.
The moment his foot crossed the threshold, the mark flared.
Pain exploded through his chest, driving him to his knees. He cried out, the sound echoing wildly as the symbols on the chamber walls ignited with dull red light.
Kael rushed to him. "Aren!"
"I'm—" Aren gasped. "I'm fine."
But he wasn't.
The world twisted.
The mountains vanished.
He stood in a vast hall of obsidian and gold. Pillars rose like spears into darkness. At the far end, a throne sat empty—its crown resting upon the armrest, cracked and smoldering.
"You have returned."
The voice was neither male nor female. It came from everywhere.
Aren turned slowly. Shadows gathered before him, forming the outline of a figure crowned in fire.
"I don't know you," Aren said, though fear clawed at his spine.
The figure laughed softly. "You know me better than you know yourself."
The mark burned hotter.
"You are the ember," the figure continued. "The last promise the crown ever made."
"I don't want this power," Aren said. "I don't want your war."
"There is no escaping legacy," the figure replied. "Only denying it—and watching the world burn again."
The throne cracked.
Flames surged.
Aren screamed—
—and the vision shattered.
He woke on cold stone, Kael kneeling beside him, his face pale.
"You collapsed," Kael said. "The vault reacted to you."
Aren struggled to sit up, his body trembling. "It spoke to me."
Kael's eyes darkened. "What did it say?"
Aren looked down at his chest, where faint lines of glowing red now traced outward from the mark like veins of molten light.
"That the crown isn't done," Aren whispered. "And neither am I."
Kael helped him to his feet. "Then we don't have much time."
"Time for what?"
Kael looked toward the distant horizon, where storm clouds gathered unnaturally fast. "For the world to realize the First Crown has found a bearer."
Aren followed his gaze, dread settling deep within his chest.
The embers had been stirred.
And somewhere far away, the throne was waiting.