110. Reduced to Ashes

The northern outpost stood untouched, the cold stone walls impervious to the fires that had consumed Oryn-Vel. It was silent here—eerily so. No cries of the dying, no clash of steel, no shouts of panic. Just the distant crackle of flames, far below.

Lady Zefaria stepped out first, the wind catching at the hem of her heavy cloak. The air was sharp, carrying the scent of charred wood and blood even from this distance. Behind her, Sir Alden followed, his boots crunching against the frost-laced ground as they made their way toward the edge of the outpost's overlooking platform.

Neither spoke.

The city stretched before them, a graveyard of fire and ruin. The once-bustling streets were now skeletal, reduced to little more than smoldering wreckage and blackened stone. Buildings that had stood for generations now lay in heaps of cinder and rubble, their foundations still glowing with embers. The eastern gate had collapsed entirely, a gaping wound in the city's defenses.

And the bodies.

Even from here, Zefaria could see them—countless, strewn like discarded dolls. Some burned beyond recognition, others twisted and broken, their lifeblood painting the streets.

A heavy silence hung between them.

Alden, for all his rigid posture and impassive expression, clenched his jaw so tightly that the muscle beneath his cheek twitched. Zefaria noticed the way his hand curled at his side, fingers flexing as though grasping for something—his sword, perhaps, though there was no one left to fight.

She turned her gaze forward once more.

She had seen war.

She had seen cities fall.

But this—

This was not war.

This was annihilation.

Her gloved hands curled into fists at her sides, and her throat felt tight.

"Gods," Alden murmured, barely above a whisper.

It was rare to hear emotion in his voice.

"That's what they wanted," Zefaria said, voice quiet, even. Controlled. "To make us watch. To make us understand that this was always their endgame."

She didn't know who she hated more—Varrel, for orchestrating this nightmare, or herself, for being too far away to stop it.

Alden exhaled through his nose, his breath fogging in the cold air. His pale eyes stayed locked on the city, taking in every detail with the kind of calculating scrutiny that came second nature to a knight.

"There will be survivors," he said. "There always are."

Survivors.

Yes.

The ones who had fought. The ones who had hidden. The ones who had lost everything but still clung to life.

And what would they do now?

Where would they go?

A war-torn city could be rebuilt. A burned one? A city where three separate magic-infused firebombs had detonated in key locations?

Oryn-Vel was gone.

Zefaria lifted her chin slightly, her expression still unreadable. "We wait until dawn," she said. "Then we go down there ourselves. If there's anything left to salvage… we will find it."

Alden nodded, though his gaze did not waver from the ruins below.

The fires flickered.

The wind howled over the mountains.

Neither of them said what they were both thinking.

They had won nothing.

*

The fires still burned. The screams had faded, but the silence left in their wake was far worse. It was the first hour of a new year, and Oryn-Vel lay in ruin.

*

The air in the safehouse was thick with the scent of sweat, dried blood, and exhaustion. Merrick sat against the far wall, his head tilted back, staring blankly at the wooden ceiling. His Ignition ability had burned through most of his reserves; his body ached from overuse, but the exhaustion gnawing at him was deeper than physical.

Across from him, Mira wrapped a thin blanket around Selka, the younger girl's small frame still trembling. Her crystalline magic had flickered out long ago, and now, she lay curled up, her face buried in Mira's shoulder. Mira smoothed a hand over Selka's hair, whispering something too soft to be heard.

Marin and Tess sat together, legs pulled up to their chests, their wounds hastily wrapped. Marin's arm trembled where she held it against her ribs. Tess still had streaks of blood on her face—some hers, some Callen's. Every time she blinked, she saw him, heard him, ready to here him joke and laugh beside her.

And now… he was gone.

Elyan stood by the only window that hadn't been shattered, arms crossed as she kept watch. Her face was unreadable, her expression carved from stone. But she, too, had that distant look—the one that meant she was counting names, measuring loss.

Beside her, Renna slept fitfully, her breaths shallow, her skin pale as wax. She had not woken since they arrived, and none of them knew if she ever would.

The safehouse still stood, but none of them felt safe.

*

His lungs burned. His legs ached. But he didn't stop.

Felix sprinted through the blackened streets, weaving through the wreckage, past crumbling stone and charred bodies, past the ruins of homes where echoes of lives once lived still lingered.

His breath came ragged, his heart hammering.

The Archive. It had to be intact. It had to be.

The Ashen God. The Book of Ashes. Varrel's madness.

He needed answers.

Somewhere in the distance, another building collapsed, sending a wave of embers into the sky. The fires roared on, bathing the night in hues of red and gold.

He did not look back.

*

Callen was barely conscious. His wrists were bound, his clothes torn, his face half-covered in dried blood. The wound where his eye had been throbbed dully, though the pain had settled into something distant now, something quieter.

He was slung over the back of a Syndicate enforcer's shoulder, his body limp, barely more than dead weight.

Ahead, Ivara strode forward, her coat dusted with ash, her blades still stained with old blood. She barely reacted when another of her subordinates approached.

"Harker and Grendon never returned," the man reported, voice tight. "The Whispers are gone. The eastern gate—"

"Destroyed. I know."

The man hesitated. "Oryn-Vel is lost."

Ivara finally glanced back at him, her sharp eyes gleaming in the firelight. "No," she murmured. "It was never meant to last."

She turned forward again, setting her sights on the looming ruin of Keep Valcian.

Callen let his head lull to the side, catching glimpses of fire through the strands of hair that clung to his damp forehead. His lips were cracked, his mind slow, his body heavy.

But as the new year arrived, as the Syndicate's remnants marched into the keep, he did not feel defeated.

Not yet.

*

They ran.

Char's shoulder was slick with blood, his steps uneven, his breath ragged. The wound still throbbed, but there was no time to stop, no time to care. Beside him, Ishmael kept pace, his own injury slowing him down but not stopping him.

They turned a corner and nearly slipped on the wet cobblestones, slick with rain and something darker.

A new year.

769 AE.

And yet, the streets still burned.

Oryn-Vel still bled.

Char clenched his fists, ignoring the sting in his shoulder, ignoring the burn in his lungs. He didn't look at the bodies. He didn't let himself think.

"We're close," Ishmael muttered.

Char nodded, but in the back of his mind, he wondered—was there even anything left to go back to?

*

The meeting hall of Keep Valcian was in ruin. Its once-grand structure had been reduced to blackened stone and broken beams, smoke curling up in ghostly tendrils from the collapsed ceiling. Rain dripped through the gaps, sizzling as it touched embers that had yet to fully die. The grand oak table, once polished and regal, was now half-splintered, one leg broken, barely able to support the weight of the men and women who surrounded it.

They were the last ones left.

The remnants of the Syndicate.

The air was thick with the acrid stench of burnt flesh, of death, of a city that had fallen to ruin. The fires beyond the keep were beginning to wane, but their glow still painted the fractured walls in flickering shades of red and orange, like the dying breath of a wounded beast.

Ivara crossed one leg over the other, slouched back in her chair, arms draped lazily along its sides. A deep, satisfied smirk curled on her lips, though there was an edge to it—something cold, something watchful. Her knife twirled in her fingers, glinting under the dim light of the remaining torches.

In front of her, bound and discarded on the stone floor like a stray dog, lay Callen.

His body was a mess of wounds, his clothes torn, his hands still tied behind his back. His breath was uneven, but his one good eye—bruised and bloodshot—stared up at her with a look that defied death itself.

Ivara tilted her head, feigning pity. "You look like shit, kid."

Callen said nothing.

She let the silence linger, enjoying the quiet between them before she leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "You know," she mused, "I thought you'd scream more when I took that eye. Guess I was wrong." Her smirk widened into a sharp, predatory grin. "Tough little bastard, aren't you?"

Callen still said nothing. He simply stared at her, the firelight reflected in his remaining eye, making it gleam like molten gold.

Ivara clicked her tongue, sitting back. "Well, don't worry. You'll be begging before I'm done with you."

Before Callen could respond—not that he planned to—the low murmur of voices at the table grew louder.

"They're late," growled Asdan, a broad-shouldered man with jagged scars across his chin. His knuckles were still raw from the night's battles. "Where the fuck is Varrel?"

"I don't like this," muttered Ruthais, a thin, wiry man who had always been more suited to scheming than fighting. He drummed his fingers on the table. "We lost too much tonight. The city's ruined. We need a plan, and Varrel's been gone."

"Gone?" Vekka, a woman with dark, piercing eyes, scoffed. "He's been locked underground with that damn book, ranting to himself like a mad priest."

"Maybe he's already dead," Asdan muttered.

Ivara said nothing. She simply continued twirling her knife, watching the paranoia seep into their voices.

Then—

A cold wind slithered through the broken hall.

It should have been impossible—the air outside was still heavy with smoke and the last embers of fire. But this wind carried something else.

The torches lining the walls flickered. The dying embers of the city burned lower, their glow shrinking. The shadows stretched unnaturally, swallowing corners that should have been illuminated.

The air grew thick, heavy, wrong.

And then—the stone beneath them trembled.

The murmurs died. The table creaked as hands instinctively gripped its edges. Even Ivara stopped twirling her knife.

The door to the underground chambers creaked open.

And Varrel stepped through.

Or rather—what was left of him.

His skin had turned ashen, tinged with veins of molten black that pulsed beneath the surface, like cracks in burnt stone. His once-silver hair had begun to thin, strands falling loose with every step he took. His eyes—once cold, once sharp—now gleamed with a dull, eerie gold, like dying embers refusing to go out.

He clutched the Book of Ashes against his chest, fingers trembling. His breath was slow, deep, unnatural—as though every inhale pulled something from the very air itself.

The room held still.

Ivara felt something crawl up her spine. She ignored it.

Varrel raised his head and spoke.

His voice was soft at first, barely more than a whisper. "The old world has died tonight."

No one moved.

Varrel stepped forward, his bare feet silent against the stone. "We thought we ruled the underworld of this city. Thought we were kings, carving our own paths. But we were nothing. Nothing." His lips curled in something almost like amusement, but there was no warmth in it.

"We built an empire on sand, and when the fire came, it turned to glass. This city is no longer ours. Oryn-Vel belongs to the ashes now."

His golden eyes burned brighter.

"I have seen the truth," he whispered. "I have heard His voice."

A shiver ran through the room. Even Asdan, even Ruthais, even Vekka—hardened killers, thieves, and warlords—shifted in their seats.

Varrel closed his eyes, exhaling a slow, steady breath. And then, as though something else had taken root in him, his voice rose—

"He is the fire that devours all falsehood! The blackened sun! The harbinger of the new age! He is the one true Messiah!"

His voice echoed, not just through the ruined hall, but in their bones.

Ivara clenched her jaw. She felt it.

Varrel spread his arms wide, as if embracing something unseen.

"We are no longer the Syndicate. We are the Ashen Hand."

Silence followed.

No one spoke.

No one dared.

Even Ivara, who had laughed in the face of death countless times, felt something close to dread coil in her stomach.

And then, Varrel lowered his gaze—and smiled.

A slow, terrible, knowing smile.

And he spoke one last time.

"This world will burn. But from the ashes, we will rise. And we will make gods of ourselves."

The fire outside crackled.

The air turned stale.

And in that moment, as the first hour of the new year bled into the second, the Ashen Hand was born.