Cinders Of Truth
1300 Words
The Hollow Gate closed with a sound like thunder swallowed by the earth.
Liora stood in silence, hand still outstretched from the final invocation that sealed the Veil tear. A low wind rippled through the scorched trees, carrying with it the acrid scent of ash and old magic. The Gate’s fading light had left ghost-like afterimages dancing in her eyes, but none of them held the weight of what they had seen beyond it.
Kael was the first to speak. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” she said, though her voice was distant. “Not in the way that matters.”
They turned slowly, their companions gathering around the remnants of the Gate. Dalen limped forward, leaning heavily on his staff, his robe scorched and his eyes heavy with weariness. The old mage had poured more of himself into the wards than he dared admit, and it showed.
“What we saw…” Dalen began, pausing. “It confirms it.”
Kael nodded grimly. “Ashkarin lives.”
“No,” Liora said, shaking her head. “He waits. There’s a difference.”
They stood in the ruins of the Flamebound sanctum, the final chamber where the last of the Gatewatchers had fallen centuries ago. Faint runes still glowed on the walls, flickering with memory. Liora’s fingers brushed one as she passed. The sigil beneath her skin pulsed faintly in response—still warm, still whispering.
“We have answers now,” Dalen said. “But we need more than knowledge. We need allies.”
“Do we?” Kael asked. “If the kingdoms turned a blind eye to Eldranth’s fall, why would they rise now?”
Liora turned to him. “Because they must. If they don’t, the world won’t survive what’s coming.”
She walked to the center of the sanctum, to the sunken dais where the last Flamebound had once sworn their oaths. A basin of blackened stone rested there—cold now, the eternal flame long extinguished. She reached for it, not expecting anything, but the moment her fingertips touched the rim, a flash of light surged through her sigil. The basin flared.
Kael stepped forward, hand on his sword. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” she whispered. “It… remembers me.”
Flame poured upward from the basin, not hot, but brilliant. A vision rose with it—like smoke given form. A tall woman clad in fire-wrought armor stood among a circle of mages. Her voice echoed like memory through the sanctum.
“The seals weaken. The Veil shivers. We cannot hold the breach with our strength alone.”
Another voice—deeper, ancient—answered, “Then we burn brighter.”
The vision dissolved into cinders.
Dalen stepped closer, awe plain in his face. “That was Orentha Flameborn. The last Flamebound queen. She forged the Oath of Flame at this very altar.”
“Why would the flame show it to me?” Liora asked. “What does it want?”
Kael’s expression tightened. “A successor.”
Silence fell. Liora didn’t look away. “Then maybe that’s what I need to become.”
She turned from the basin and faced her companions. “We can’t wait anymore. The world isn’t ready, but we have to be. Dalen, is there a way to awaken the other Flamewards? The old ones—dormant across the continent?”
The mage frowned. “In theory, yes. But they were sealed long ago. Only a bearer of the First Flame could unlock them.”
Liora raised her hand, and the sigil flared again—brighter than before. “Then let’s hope I’m enough.”
They left the sanctum at dawn. The skies had cleared, painted in gold and violet, though the scent of burned Veil still lingered. Wordless, they traveled through the crags and ravines, down the broken paths that led away from Eldranth’s bones.
At a fork in the road, Kael paused. “North leads to Havenmoor. It’s closest. If we’re searching for allies and Flamewards, we start there.”
Dalen nodded. “The Citadel of Ashes is hidden near those mountains. It was said to house one of the first Oathflames.”
“And Havenmoor?” Liora asked.
Kael met her eyes. “My old order. The Watchers of the Crown. They may not welcome me.”
Liora didn’t blink. “Then we remind them what they once swore to protect.”
The journey to Havenmoor took three days. They traveled by night to avoid the Order’s sentinels, still scattered across the countryside like vultures. Villages lay abandoned, fields charred, and in some places, the very ground looked drained—as though the Veil had leeched the life from the soil.
On the second night, as they rested beside a shallow stream, Dalen turned to Liora with a question he had been holding since Eldranth.
“The visions you saw beyond the Hollow Gate—what else did you see?”
She hesitated. Then: “My mother. Not just a memory. It was… like she was waiting there. Beyond the Veil, but not consumed by it.”
Dalen’s eyes darkened. “A soul can only linger in the Veil for so long before it fades.”
“I know. But she said something.” Liora glanced at the stars above. “She said the flame remembers the first oath. That when the last bearer falls, the line will return.”
“She meant you,” Kael said.
“I don’t know if I believe that,” Liora replied. “But I believe I can try.”
Kael looked at her for a long moment. “Then we follow you.”
By the fourth day, Havenmoor rose ahead of them—grey towers half-shrouded in mist, sitting like a watchful sentinel beneath the Thunderpeak Range. But as they drew near, smoke was rising.
They crested the last ridge to find the gates shattered. The city had already been attacked.
“No,” Kael muttered, voice tight. “They were too late.”
The Watchers of the Crown had fallen. Their banners lay in tatters across the square, and their great hall smoldered. Bodies lined the cobblestone paths—some burned, others marked with shadow wounds.
Liora moved through the devastation with the others at her side. It was Dalen who found the sigil.
“Here,” he called. “Carved into the stone.”
The mark was faint, etched in haste—but unmistakable. A spiral flame circled by three runes.
“It’s a warning,” Dalen said. “The Flameward here was awakened. Someone called it… but not in time.”
Kael stood over a fallen knight, hand to his chest. “They tried to hold the breach.”
“And failed,” Liora said softly. “But that means the Flameward still lies beneath.”
They descended into the crypt beneath the ruined hall. There, nestled in obsidian rock and bone dust, they found it—an altar of scorched gold, unlit and silent. But as Liora approached, her sigil responded.
The flame lit without a spark.
It bloomed upward, brilliant and soundless, revealing a hidden chamber beyond. Inside, three relics rested—an old blade, a bound book, and a flame-wrought circlet.
Dalen drew in a breath. “The Relics of Orentha.”
Kael stepped beside Liora. “Take them.”
She looked at the items—wary of their weight, their meaning. “These are for someone stronger.”
Kael shook his head. “They’re for someone willing.”
And slowly, she reached forward and took them.
The circlet flared as it touched her brow.
A voice echoed through the chamber.
“Bearer of Flame. Oathbound once more. The line endures.”
- Writer
