The Hollow's skies darkened with a heavy, winter silence, and the ground held a deceptive stillness—calm above, but tense beneath. Snow blanketed the roads leading toward the northern border, but Kaelin knew what waited beyond it wasn’t the cold. It was the ancient hunger that had once tried to devour the world through fire.
The letter reporting the shrine of molten glass had changed everything. The phrase etched upon it—The Flame remembers. The Flame forgives. The Flame will rise again—was not a warning. It was a declaration.
The shards were no longer remnants. They were becoming religion.
And that terrified Kaelin more than any war.
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On the third morning after the festival, a rider arrived at full gallop, his horse foaming at the mouth, eyes wide with dread. He dismounted in fron
