Chapter 230: The First Strike

The night air in Velgrath was heavy with anticipation. Hidden in the embrace of jagged cliffs, the outpost had once been a thriving trade post before the war routed it of life. Now, its crumbling walls and hollowed towers bore witness only to silence—and secrets. Beneath the cover of darkness, Kael's handpicked strike team moved silently through the pine forest that encircled the ruins.

Lysara led the vanguard, her eyes scanning every shadow. Behind her, Corven carried the scroll bearing the glyph fragment's translation, the key to what lay beneath Velgrath. According to the scholars, a forgotten Ember vault slumbered deep under the outpost—older than even Solence Abbey, and far more dangerous.

"We should be within two hundred paces," Corven whispered, brushing aside a bramble.

Lysara raised her fist to signal halt. She crouched and pressed her fingers against the earth. It was warm—unnaturally so.

"They've already activated something," she murmured.

Kael stepped up behind them. He wore armor etched with obsidian inlays, a sword slung across his back and a cold fire in his eyes. "We move now. No signals. No mercy."

The team surged forward.

Thelen stood at the center of the chamber, surrounded by concentric circles of carved stone. Each ring pulsed with red-gold light, echoing with voices of long-dead architects. His robes clung to his frame, soaked in sweat and incense smoke. Before him, an obelisk rose from the earth, covered in glyphs that slithered like living snakes.

Meren approached, his boots echoing. "You summoned me."

"Velgrath is nearly ready," Thelen said without turning. "Once the final seal is broken, the chamber will awaken fully."

"What's inside?"

Thelen smiled. "Memory. Rage. And the means to remake will itself."

He turned to face Meren. "You still doubt."

Meren's gaze was cold. "I doubt anything that requires blood rituals and chanting dead tongues. This isn't politics anymore. It's madness."

"Is it madness to shed weakness?" Thelen challenged. "To rebuild a world free of fear and failure?"

Meren said nothing.

Thelen placed a hand on the obelisk. The glyphs brightened.

"Soon, we won't need soldiers. We'll need only silence. Obedience. Order."

Above the vault, Lysara's team breached the outpost. Rusted gates fell beneath Kael's strike. The old towers stood like skeletal giants, and the wind howled through broken windows like mourning spirits.

"There," Corven pointed. "The central tower. Beneath it lies the vault entrance."

They approached quickly, dispatching two Ember sentinels silently. The old stairs spiraled downward into darkness.

As they descended, a rhythmic thrum filled the air, like a heartbeat made of stone.

Kael unsheathed his blade. "Whatever they've started, we end it here."

Within the vault's core, Thelen reached the final glyph. Blood had been spilled, vows had been spoken, and power stirred.

Suddenly, an alarm sigil flared.

Meren looked up sharply. "They're here."

Thelen's eyes narrowed. "Kael."

He clenched a fist, and the floor beneath him opened, revealing a well of red light. "Then let him witness what comes next."

He stepped into the well and vanished.

The strike team entered the lower sanctum, where ancient statues lined the hall—each depicting a figure with no face. Corven traced a hand across one. "These aren't just guardians. They're memories."

Lysara paused at a junction. Her instincts screamed.

"Trap!" she shouted.

Too late. Arrows of blackened bone shot from the walls, piercing two soldiers before shields were raised. Kael dove behind a pillar, dragging Lysara with him.

"We need to split. Two teams," he said, grimacing. "Corven, with me. Lysara—circle around and find the ritual chamber."

Lysara nodded, already moving. Shadows swallowed her form as she disappeared into the corridor.

In the heart of the vault, Thelen emerged in a chamber filled with pools of molten glyph-stone. He walked to the center, where a black mirror floated in midair. Inside its surface flickered images—wars long past, tyrants reborn, cities erased.

He whispered, "Show me the moment."

The mirror brightened, revealing Kael's childhood. The day his father, Lord Marcen, was executed by the High Council. The day Kael swore vengeance.

Thelen sneered. "Still driven by ghosts."

He placed both hands on the mirror. "Let's make you one."

Kael and Corven reached the outer sanctum. A series of crystal lenses hovered above pedestals, each focusing beams of golden light onto a massive locked door.

"It's a memory-lock," Corven said. "It only opens if you present a memory of pain."

Kael stepped forward.

Corven protested. "That's insane. You don't know what it'll—"

Kael touched the lens.

In a flash, he was twelve again, kneeling beside his father's body, the executioner's blade still dripping. He felt the shame, the helplessness, the guilt that he'd done nothing.

When the vision faded, the lock clicked open.

Corven was pale. "What the hell was that?"

Kael didn't answer. He simply moved forward.

Elsewhere, Lysara found the alternate chamber. It was filled with Ember acolytes, chanting around a brazier that pulsed with sickening heat. She slipped into the shadows, counting five figures.

She raised her wrist, aimed her wrist-blade, and fired.

The first acolyte fell without a sound. The second screamed—alerting the others.

Steel clashed. Fire erupted from the brazier. One acolyte lunged with a dagger of obsidian. Lysara twisted, parried, and struck low. The room became chaos.

When it was over, she stood alone—breathing hard, her blade slick with black blood.

She approached the brazier and saw a stone hidden inside—a memory core.

She pocketed it. "Better show this to Kael."

Kael and Corven entered the final chamber—only to find Thelen waiting.

"Too late," he said calmly. "The vault lives."

The black mirror flared.

Corven raised a blade, but Thelen flicked his wrist—and Corven slammed into the wall, knocked unconscious.

Kael charged. Their blades met in a cascade of sparks.

"You could've joined us," Thelen said. "We were the same, once."

"I'm nothing like you," Kael spat.

Thelen pressed the attack. "You crave control. Order. You despise chaos. We both know the truth—you'd burn the world just to rebuild it your way."

Kael drove him back, blade slicing across Thelen's robe.

"I rebuild with hope. You rebuild with fear."

Thelen staggered—but smiled. "Fear is more honest."

He touched the mirror again—and suddenly Kael was overwhelmed with visions. His friends dying. Lysara bleeding. His kingdom in flames.

He screamed and dropped to his knees.

Thelen raised his blade.

Then—

A dagger flew from the shadows, piercing Thelen's shoulder.

Lysara stepped into the chamber, eyes blazing. "Get away from him."

Thelen cursed. He vanished into the glyph-light, fleeing once again.

The mirror shattered.

Kael struggled to his feet. Lysara helped him up.

"You alright?" she asked.

He nodded. "He's wounded. He won't get far."

Corven groaned. "Please tell me someone brought wine."

They laughed—a brief, broken sound—but laughter nonetheless.

Outside, the sun was rising.

Velgrath burned.

But this time, it burned with purpose.

Kael watched the smoke rise and turned to his team.

"We found the Ember's core," he said. "Now we find their heart."

And with that, they marched on—toward the next fire, the next battle.

The war had only just begun.