The Black Gate of Cindermarch

The ruins of Cindermarch rose from the scorched horizon like a beast's skeleton. Towers broken and bent, spires crumbled, bridges collapsed into nothing. What once stood as the heart of the demon empire now existed in ruin and shadow—yet there was something undeniably alive about it.

It watched them as they approached.

Ren felt it first. "Do you feel that?"

Callan nodded. "The city remembers me."

The closer they got, the less it felt like a ruin. The air shimmered with latent magic. Streets that should have been choked by time remained eerily intact. Stone statues still stood, some untouched by age, others half-melted. Most depicted the Demon Generals—one of which was Callan himself.

Ren eyed a massive sculpture of Callan near the city gates. The figure was draped in a long cloak, one hand raised as if leading an army, the other holding a blade engulfed in flame.

"Nice cheekbones," Ren commented. "They make you look taller too."

Callan didn't smile. "That statue shouldn't still be standing."

"What do you mean?"

"I ordered it destroyed when I sealed this place. Along with everything else that glorified me."

They stood before the Black Gate, the massive entryway into Cindermarch's inner sanctum. It was shut, sealed by chains as thick as tree trunks, layered in runes. And yet the gate pulsed faintly—alive, resisting and welcoming all at once.

Callan stepped forward and placed a hand on the cold iron.

It flared red.

The chains began to unwind.

"I thought it would reject me," he muttered.

"Looks like the city wants its general back," Ren said warily.

When the final chain slithered away, the doors creaked open, revealing the Ash Corridor beyond.

They stepped into the city.

The corridor was silent. Buildings loomed on either side like watchful sentinels, windows dark, alleyways deeper than they should be. The stone underfoot bore faded sigils from the old empire—wardings, protection circles, blood rituals—all dim but not dead.

Callan walked with steady steps. His gaze swept each rooftop, every shadow.

"This street once led to the palace," he said. "We held parades here. Victories… sacrifices."

Ren walked a few paces behind, blades out.

"Place feels like a tomb."

"It is. And a shrine."

As they turned the corner into a wider plaza, a cold wind passed them—carrying with it the faint sound of chanting.

Callan drew his blade. "We're not alone."

From the plaza shadows stepped a dozen figures—hooded, robed, faces hidden. The Children of Cinder.

They stood in formation, surrounding a bonfire made of blackwood. From within the fire, red smoke coiled upward in the shape of a serpent.

One of the robed figures stepped forward and removed his hood.

He was old, gaunt, with eyes like polished stone. Scars ran down his neck where his throat had once been slit—and crudely repaired by demon magic.

"Callan Routh," the old man rasped. "Ashen General. We welcome you home."

Ren raised his daggers. "Nice welcome party. You bring snacks?"

The cultist ignored him. "We have waited years for this moment. The Heir is ready. And now that the Thronefire burns again, all that remains is for you to kneel… and die."

Callan didn't flinch. "You think I'll hand this city over to a bastard who wears my name?"

The cultist smiled, broken teeth flashing. "Not to him. For him. Your death will seal his rise. The old magic binds blood and title. You are the last key."

He raised a hand.

The bonfire behind him exploded.

From within stepped a massive armored figure—nearly eight feet tall, covered in black steel and ash. A warbeast. Demon-forged.

It roared as it stepped forward, brandishing a two-handed axe that crackled with soulflame.

Ren whistled. "So. Big guy's ours?"

Callan didn't answer. He stepped into a ready stance, eyes on the warbeast.

"Stay low. I'll handle it."

Ren backed off. "Have fun!"

The warbeast charged.

Callan met it head-on.

Their clash echoed through the plaza—steel against soulflame, brute force against precision. The creature swung wide, its axe splitting stone as Callan danced around it, striking for weak joints. But the armor held.

Too strong for blades alone.

Callan slid under a sweeping strike and slammed his palm into the creature's chest, channeling a focused blast of his inner fire.

The soulflame sputtered. The creature howled.

It stumbled—just enough for Callan to leap and strike through the gap in its neck armor. His blade pierced deep. With a choked roar, the warbeast collapsed.

Dead.

The cultists scattered.

Ren pursued one, knocking him down and planting a blade at his throat. "Where is the Heir?"

The man spat blood. "He waits… in the throne chamber. The fires have already chosen him."

Callan stepped forward. "What fires?"

"The Thronefire," the cultist whispered. "You sealed it with your blood. He'll break it… with yours."

And then, without warning, the cultist bit down hard on something in his mouth.

He convulsed and died.

They made their way deeper into the city.

The streets twisted strangely, no longer matching the old map in Callan's mind. Buildings had shifted. Some floated inches off the ground. Shadows curved in unnatural ways.

"I sealed this place with layered dimensional barriers," Callan muttered. "The cult must've cracked them open wrong. This place is becoming… unstable."

Ren looked at him. "Unstable how?"

"Reality bends. Rules change. If we don't reach the palace soon, we may never get out."

The palace loomed ahead—its towers skeletal, its great gate adorned with runes glowing red.

Ren stopped cold. "That wasn't red earlier, was it?"

"No," Callan said. "He's waking the throne."

They ran.

The gate creaked open on its own as they approached.

The palace interior was warped. Columns twisted like vines, walls flickering between stone and flesh. The central corridor led to the Thronefire Chamber—once the heart of the empire.

As they entered, they saw him.

The Heir.

Young. Maybe twenty. Tall. Pale skin. Dark, burning eyes. He wore a long coat of black and red. The same obsidian ring from before pulsed on his hand.

He sat upon a throne carved from obsidian and bone.

"You're late, Father," he said.

Callan froze.

The voice. The eyes.

"…Seth?"

Ren looked between them. "You know him?"

Callan's voice was low. "I thought he died in the siege of Drava. He was just a baby."

Seth smiled. "Oh, I died, alright. But your enemies resurrected me. They needed a replacement. You left a void. They filled it—with me."

Callan stepped forward slowly. "You don't have to follow their path."

"I am their path," Seth growled. "I was forged in the fire you left behind. You taught me—through your legacy—that power is taken, not given."

He rose.

Behind the throne, the Thronefire ignited. A massive pillar of red flame, reaching to the ceiling. Within it, echoes of the past—war, screams, chants of loyalty.

Seth drew a blade of ember-glass and pointed it at Callan.

"Kneel," he said. "And I'll let your friend live."

Callan didn't move.

Seth's face darkened. "Then die like a coward."

The flame surged.

And the real battle began.