Chapter 15 – The Flamebearer’s Path

Chapter 15 – The Flamebearer's Path

The winds that swept across Thornshell carried with them the salt of the sea and the whispers of a world shifting toward storm. Yet within the high towers of the coastal city, Don Adraels sat still—his eyes closed, the flamebound medallion pulsing at his chest.

The Seawatch Summit had ended, fragile alliances drawn in ink and fire. **Ghodal Hailch was tasked to coordinate with House Griffor**, and Earl Jhesarwan Thornf prepared his defenses. But Don… he was waiting. Not for politics. Not for strategy.

He was listening.

The relic called to him. Louder now. More vivid. Dreams came each night—visions of a ruined spire, hammer on anvil, a forge lit not by coal but something older. "Return to the Dreadspire. The flame remembers."

On the third night, he awoke breathless, heart ablaze.

By morning, he had made his decision.

******

Caria met him at the old Thornshell stables, the white tiger already saddled. "You're leaving without the others?"

"No. I'm leaving with you," Don said, strapping on his cloak. "And Dvrik. Leinara. We'll be back before the next moon."

She tilted her head. "The relic?"

Don nodded. "It needs something. It's not whole. And I think it's time I see where it came from."

Leinara met them at the coastal trail, already armored, her raven hair bound tight. Dvrik brought provisions and an unspoken oath in his steady presence. They did not speak of what happened in the Temple or the visions from the Mire—they did not need to.

The road led northeast from Thornshell along ancient trader paths, twisting through cliffs and buried ruins once used by the Flameborn long before the kingdoms rose. They followed the relic's pull, which Don felt most clearly at night—when silence thickened, and flame danced at the edge of dreams.

Three days passed in a blur of jagged stone, coastal winds, and fading murals on crumbling walls. Then they found it.

A fissure in the cliffs, carved unnaturally. Obsidian spikes jutted from the mouth like fangs. The entrance to the Dreadspire Forge.

They lit torches. Even Caria's staff flickered dim in the dark.

"Something sleeps in here," Dvrik muttered.

"No," Don corrected. "Something waits."

******

The halls were carved from dark glass and scorched basalt. Ash clung to everything. Blackened chains hung from ceilings like skeletal vines. And at the heart of the forge, they found it—a great anvil cracked down the middle, surrounded by braziers long dead.

Don stepped forward, pendant drawn. The moment it neared the anvil, a thunderous hum resonated through the chamber.

Flames burst into life.

The medallion leapt from Don's chest, hovering above the forge. A ring of fire circled the room, symbols igniting one by one—ancient runes none could name but all instinctively feared.

Then came the voice. Not spoken, not heard—felt.

"The bearer returns. Flame untested. Will you wield or be consumed?"

Caria raised her staff in defense. Leinara drew steel. But Don did not flinch.

"I will wield."

The flames collapsed inward. The anvil reformed, molten chains binding its split core. A figure emerged from the wall—tall, armored in cracked obsidian, eyes burning coals beneath a broken crown.

A memory. A ghost of an ancient Adraels conqueror, not unlike the one they had seen imprisoned beneath the Mire.

But this one knew him.

"Then kneel, Flamebearer. Forge thy path in the trial of fire."

Don stepped into the ring of fire. As he did, the chamber vanished.

Don stood alone upon a bridge of molten glass suspended above a sea of living fire. The heat did not burn him. Instead, it welcomed him—recognized him.

From across the bridge came a version of himself—older, taller, his armor blackened and his eyes hard.

"Is this your future?" Don asked.

"No," the figure replied. "This is your fear."

They clashed.

Blades of fire met steel of purpose. Each blow was a test: of will, of memory, of self. The older Don taunted him with truths half-buried:

"You crave peace, yet prepare for war. You offer love, yet lead others to death. You wear the flame, but will you carry its weight?"

Don did not answer with words. He fought.

And when his sword shattered, he fought barehanded. When his knees buckled, he rose again. Not for glory. Not for the crown. But for them—his friends, his family, the realm.

At last, he struck the final blow.

The figure smiled. "Then go. The path awaits."

The vision broke. Don awoke before the reformed anvil. In his hand was a new weapon—one not forged of metal, but obsidian flame. A sword and torch, a beacon of his path.

---

They returned to Thornshell changed.

Ghodal met them outside the council chamber, eyes wide at the sight of Don's new weapon.

"You were gone five days," he said. "And in that time, storms gathered."

Don sheathed the blade. "Then let them come."

---

**The Summit with House Griffor**

In the hall of stone lions beneath the Thornshell palace, House Griffor made its appearance. **Lord Varant Griffor**, a mountain of a man with a voice like a crashing tide, stood beside his daughter—**Lady Velmira Griffor**, armored and storm-eyed.

Earl Jhesarwan Thornf offered Don the floor.

Don stood not as a boy, but a bearer of flame. He spoke of alliance, of the coming threat, of Tidor and the ancient evil lurking behind their war banners. He laid the obsidian sword across the table.

"I do not ask for blind loyalty. I ask for courage. For unity. And for readiness to face not just men, but monsters."

Lord Griffor studied him a long moment. Then he laughed.

"The boy carries fire and speaks like thunder. Warsenbrenn has found its storm. House Griffor stands with you, Don Adraels."

So it was done.

The first flames of rebellion were lit, not with fury—but with purpose.

And far away, deep in a ruin cloaked in pale mist, the Wraith stirred.