Chapter Thirteen: Whispers in the Flame

The fires still burned long after the battle ended.

Small funeral pyres flickered in the distance, lighting up the blood-soaked plains like stars fallen to the earth. Smoke curled into the sky, drifting upward in lazy spirals that carried the scent of ash, death, and memory. Soldiers moved slowly now—silent, exhausted, mourning comrades lost and victories that felt too hollow to celebrate.

Althar sat apart from the others on a lone stone near the edge of the field, his sword stabbed into the ground before him. His armor was scratched, scorched, and smeared with blood—none of it his own anymore. A cool breeze whispered over the plains, lifting his dark hair and cooling the dried sweat on his brow.

He stared at the flames in silence.

He didn't know how long he sat like that, unmoving, his mind turning over the masked commander's words.

"You do not know what you carry."

He hadn't responded then. He hadn't had time. But the truth of that accusation echoed louder the longer he was alone. Whatever was stirring inside him—this strange, golden power that lashed out when he needed it most—wasn't from this world.

Nor was it fully his.

"Your Majesty."

Althar looked up slowly. It was the girl from earlier, the young healer. She clutched a steaming cup in both hands and held it out with a hesitant smile. "You've been sitting alone a long time. I thought… maybe you'd like something warm."

Althar hesitated. His old self, the emotionless king of a fallen empire, would've dismissed her without a second thought.

But this life was different.

He took the cup. "What's your name?"

She blinked, clearly surprised. "Ariya."

"Ariya," he repeated. The name felt soft on his tongue. "You're very brave."

She flushed slightly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I was terrified. But I—I couldn't run. Not when others were bleeding."

He nodded, taking a sip of the drink. It was bitter, with a hint of herbs. Calming. "That's courage," he said.

She smiled, wider this time. "My mother says even kings need kindness."

Althar looked back at the pyres, his gaze distant. "Kindness is a luxury I was never taught to afford."

Ariya hesitated, then spoke softly. "Then maybe… it's time someone taught you."

He turned his eyes on her, not cold or stern, but searching. For the first time in two lifetimes, he couldn't tell if he was looking at a servant girl—or the start of something far more dangerous.

Something like connection.

Ariya stepped back politely. "I'll let you rest, Your Majesty. Goodnight."

As she disappeared into the encampment, Althar was left with the warm cup in his hands and a strange warmth in his chest that didn't come from it.

Later that night, in his command tent, Althar poured over the reports brought by his scouts. No signs of the masked commander. No movement along the other borders. The surge of undead and creatures had ended the moment the commander vanished, leaving behind only speculation and dread.

"What do you make of this?" Althar asked Rorek, who stood across the table with arms folded.

The general grunted. "We dealt them a blow, but that was no army. That was a probe."

"Agreed."

"They were testing our strength. And yours."

Althar's gaze dropped to the glowing map spread out across the table. The kingdom's western border pulsed with magic markers—silent now, but still laced with corruption.

"The power I used," Althar said slowly, "I didn't summon it. It came to me."

Rorek's brows lifted slightly. "Magic of your own?"

"I've never studied it. Never needed to. But in that moment, something woke up." He touched the hilt of his sword, where the metal still shimmered faintly. "And it responded like it had waited centuries for me."

Rorek said nothing for a long moment. Then he cleared his throat. "There's an old tale from the Age Before Flames. About kings of the lost bloodline, born with magic tied to the roots of the world. Living conduits of the primal weave. They were more than rulers—they were part of the land itself."

Althar looked up. "You think I'm one of them?"

Rorek shrugged. "I don't know what I think. I just know we haven't seen anything like you."

Althar exhaled through his nose, eyes narrowing. "And neither has our enemy."

That night, Althar dreamt again.

But not of war.

He stood in a place between flame and mist, surrounded by colossal statues—stone giants with hollow eyes and runes carved deep into their skin. They whispered in a tongue he didn't know but somehow understood.

"Return to the heart."

"Claim what was buried."

"Open the sealed gate."

He stepped forward—and the earth cracked beneath him.

Then, suddenly, the statues turned their heads toward him. One by one. And the mist parted.

Revealing a throne of obsidian.

Empty.

And waiting.

Althar awoke with a gasp, his skin cold despite the heavy blankets.

He wasn't just a king anymore.

Something ancient had called to him—and it was waiting for him to answer.