Chapter 13: Cracks in the Flame

The wind that raced down from Mount Kel'Thir carried more than snow—it carried whispers. Fragments of ancient voices echoed through the valleys, some reverent, others afraid. The mountain no longer slumbered. And the world beneath it felt the shift.

Rael stood at the edge of a frozen ridge, overlooking the scarred plateau where the Pale Sovereign had fallen. The divine seal had been broken, its remnants now a fractured scar in the shape of a dying star. Tendrils of golden-black energy danced upward in slow spirals, flickering like embers caught in time.

He did not speak. He only watched.

Behind him, the others gathered in a hollow beneath a crag of rock. The air was thin and bitter. Snow drifted around them, though none dared settle on Rael's cloak. It melted before touching him.

Selene crouched near a small fire, poking it with the end of her dagger. The flames sputtered—more smoke than heat.

Caelaris was seated on a boulder, cleaning her blade with ritualistic patience. The Sovereign's frost had etched scars into her gauntlet, and the tip of her spear now bore a faint, permanent sheen of pale blue.

Aelthaea sat apart, silent as a tombstone. She was drawing symbols into the snow with her finger—glyphs from a language older than any mortal tongue. She didn't look at Rael, but her presence remained tethered to him, like a shadow reaching for its source.

"He hasn't moved in hours," Selene muttered, breaking the quiet.

Caelaris didn't glance up. "He's listening."

"To what? There's nothing but wind."

"That's what you think," Aelthaea murmured. "But the wind carries her voice."

Selene stiffened. "You mean the Womb?"

"No," Aelthaea replied softly. "I mean his voice. The one he buried."

The fire cracked.

Selene exhaled sharply, the tension in her jaw softening. "He's changing."

"No," Caelaris said, her voice calm but cold. "He's remembering."

That night, Rael finally turned from the ridge and walked into camp. The fire flared as he passed. His eyes glowed brighter than usual, and his presence felt… heavier. Grounded.

"We head south," he said without preamble.

"Where?" Caelaris asked.

"There's a temple in the Deadwoods," he replied. "The gods tried to erase it. They failed."

Selene leaned forward. "Is it a seal?"

Rael shook his head. "Not this time. It's a memory. Something buried long ago."

Aelthaea spoke without looking up. "A memory of what?"

Rael looked at her, then past her, eyes fixed on the distant black of the southern sky.

"Of who I was before they burned my name."

The journey south was slow.

As they descended the mountain, time seemed to warp. Days stretched, hours bent. Sometimes the sun rose too quickly, other times it lingered in twilight. The terrain grew stranger with each league: trees that bled sap like ink, stones that whispered as you passed.

The Deadwoods were not a place—they were a forgetting. A land denied by the gods, left to rot between truths.

By the fifth day, they reached the forest's edge.

The trees were tall, twisted, and black as obsidian. No birds sang. No wind stirred. The air itself seemed to recoil as they stepped inside.

"Charming," Selene said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Reminds me of my childhood."

Caelaris took point, her spear humming faintly. "Stay close."

Aelthaea lingered at Rael's side. "You've been here before," she said, more statement than question.

Rael nodded. "A long time ago. Before the rebellion. Before I was named."

Selene blinked. "You weren't always Rael?"

Rael didn't answer. His eyes were focused ahead.

They walked for what felt like hours, though no light shifted above them. Eventually, they came to a clearing. At its center stood a ruined structure—a temple of white stone cracked by time and overgrowth. Vines wrapped its columns. Statues lay shattered at its feet.

The air was thick with presence.

Aelthaea stopped just shy of the threshold. "This was sacred once."

"It still is," Rael said.

He stepped forward. The others followed, though more cautiously.

Inside the temple, the air turned cold. The inner sanctum was empty save for a single dais, upon which rested a cracked mirror framed in tarnished gold. The glass within shimmered—not with reflection, but with memory.

Rael approached it alone.

The moment he touched its edge, the glass flared.

The world shifted.

Rael stood alone.

The temple was gone. The forest was gone. He was in a place of light and fire—a throne room of the old Pantheon. Tall pillars gleamed with holy symbols. Choirs of divine flame floated in the air.

And on the throne sat a figure.

Golden-skinned. Eyes like burning stars. A crown of flame adorned her brow.

"Rael," she said. Her voice echoed with thousands of memories.

Rael dropped to one knee.

"Mother."

The goddess rose. "You broke the seals."

"I had to," Rael said. "You left the world to rot."

"You defied us," she said. "You chose the Abyss."

"I chose freedom."

She stepped closer. "You were born from fire, Rael. Our flame. Our blade. And now you burn everything."

Rael stood. "I burn because you left me in darkness."

The goddess lifted her hand.

Light surged.

Rael did not flinch.

The vision shattered.

He gasped, stumbling back from the mirror. The others rushed to his side.

"What happened?" Selene asked.

Rael steadied himself. "I saw her."

"Who?" Caelaris asked.

"My mother. The Flame Queen."

Aelthaea inhaled sharply. "She still lives?"

"In fragments," Rael said. "Enough to speak."

Selene hesitated. "And what did she say?"

Rael looked at the mirror, which now lay cracked and empty.

"She said I was theirs."

A pause.

"And I said no."

As they left the temple, the Deadwoods stirred. Trees shifted. Shadows coiled. But they did not follow.

Rael walked ahead of the others now, flame flickering steadily around his feet.

The cracks in his flame no longer leaked weakness.

They burned with choice.

And far behind them, deep in the mirror's forgotten sanctuary, a new crack formed across the last piece of divine glass—spreading slowly, as if something else had begun to wake.