The War-Relic Wakes

Flames and shadows danced across the ancient stones of Cradlehold. The mountain monastery—silent for centuries—now thundered with war.

Callan stood at the broken gate, his blade wreathed in Thronefire. Every breath he took pulled more of it from the air, and every step left scorched footprints on the cold stone.

The Ashen cultists charged.

He met them with fury.

His sword arced once—twice—and three men fell, limbs severed, armor slagged. The fire didn't just burn flesh; it judged. One touch, and those tainted with the Ashen Order's essence screamed as their bodies crumbled to ash.

To his left, Ren loosed arrows with inhuman precision. One shaft pinned a cultist's foot to the floor; the second pierced her throat before she could scream.

To his right, Seris spun between blades, daggers flickering like starlight. She fought not just with skill, but with laughter—a manic joy only a Varne sellsword could summon mid-battle.

Above, Solenne hovered in a dome of force, arms outstretched, channeling wards that held the sky-beasts at bay.

But even with their resistance…

They were losing ground.

The Broken Bell

The Ashen Order had numbers—dozens, maybe more—pouring from cracks in the cliffs, descending on ropes of bone or through summoned portals that rippled the air. Their chants filled the air like a death hymn.

Callan backstepped, panting, dodging a bolt of red lightning.

He couldn't hold the fire much longer.

It wanted out.

It screamed in his veins, begging to be unleashed completely.

"Hold," he whispered, clutching the hilt of his sword. "Not yet."

Then he heard the sound—low, rhythmic. A drumbeat?

No. A bell.

He turned.

And saw it: the great bell of Cradlehold, cracked and long silent, now moving.

Without wind. Without touch.

It swung on its own. Once. Twice.

BOOOOOOM.

The note it rang wasn't sound—it was a command.

Across the courtyard, Ashen cultists froze. A ripple passed through them—half shivered, half dropped to their knees.

Then the ground split.

The War-Relic

Beneath Cradlehold, deep under its foundations, an ancient power awoke.

Stone collapsed inward.

Dust rose like a funeral shroud.

From the chasm emerged a figure of metal and fire—a relic of the Ember Saints. Ten feet tall, shaped like a man but forged from brass and obsidian, with runes glowing across its frame.

A War-Relic.

Its face was a blank mask, but from within it pulsed light. It lifted one massive hand—and a hammer of molten rock formed in it.

Callan stared. "What in the hells is that?"

Solenne screamed from her vantage: "It's here to protect the Flamebearer! It's bound to you! Control it!"

"How?" he yelled.

"Just think it!"

Another bolt of shadow magic nearly struck him—but the War-Relic stepped in front, its plated hand absorbing the blast. It turned to him.

Waiting.

Callan focused.

Move.

The War-Relic charged.

It was like watching a siege engine come to life. Each step cracked the stone. Its hammer smashed two cultists into the ground like puppets. Another swing crushed three more.

The tide began to shift.

Breath of the Mountain

The cultists broke formation. Some ran. Others chanted louder—summoning something else.

Dark clouds gathered, not in the sky—but on the ground. A pool of ink widened beneath the altar of Cradlehold. From it emerged a creature of twisted antlers and crawling limbs—a beast of rot and ritual.

A Lurker.

It let out a cry that made bones rattle and skin crawl.

The War-Relic turned to face it.

Callan pushed his mind harder: Don't let it pass.

The War-Relic clashed with the beast—hammer against claw, flame against corruption. Runes flashed. The ground trembled.

But something inside Callan pulled. A link to the creature. A tether of command and flame.

He closed his eyes—and stepped into the War-Relic's mind.

Symbiosis

It wasn't a mind in the traditional sense.

It was a space of heat and logic. Symbols, equations, memories of battles fought long before his time. It recognized him—not as a stranger, but as a successor. A vessel reborn.

Command accepted.

He saw flashes—of the relic's creator, of battles it fought beside the original Ember General, of betrayals and sacrifice.

Then—

What do you will, Flamebearer?

Callan answered without hesitation: BURN THAT THING TO HELL.

The War-Relic's core ignited.

It threw off its hammer. Its fists caught fire.

And it dove into the Lurker, pummeling it with blows that shattered the very magic holding it together. Each hit sent out waves of force. The mountain groaned.

With a final roar, the War-Relic ripped the Lurker's head from its malformed spine.

The beast shrieked, shuddered—and imploded into smoke.

Silence fell.

The cultists screamed in terror and fled.

Aftermath

Cradlehold stood, barely.

The War-Relic returned to its crater, sinking back into the mountain, its duty fulfilled—for now.

Callan dropped to one knee, breathing heavily. Seris knelt beside him, patting his shoulder with a bloodied hand.

"Don't pass out on me, General," she grinned. "We've still got loot to divide."

Ren walked up, bruised and limping. "That… thing. It listened to you."

Solenne landed nearby, robes smoking. "Because he is the last spark of the Ember Throne. The War-Relics only answer to their kin."

Callan rose slowly. "Then we've only just started waking the dead."

Beyond the Ash

That night, Callan stood before the sealed door in Cradlehold's inner sanctum—the same door from the murals. Behind it was something. Maybe truth. Maybe damnation.

He placed the scythe shard into the center of the seal.

The runes glowed.

Stone ground against stone.

The door cracked open.

From the darkness beyond, a single whisper reached him.

"You are not the first to burn."