Chapter 16 – Before the Flame Rises

Chapter 16 – Before the Flame Rises

Thornshell Keep: Brewing Storms

The ancient walls of Thornshell Keep groaned as persistent sea winds battered the ancient stone, carrying the scent of salt and foreboding. Clouds, thick and gray as bruised parchment, rolled in from the south, heavy with moisture and seemingly summoned by the growing unrest across the land. From a high balcony overlooking the city, Don Adraels stood beside Caria Thornf, his eyes scanning the mist-veiled horizon, discerning more than just weather patterns.

"The air tastes of thunder, Don," Caria said quietly, her voice almost lost in the wind's howl. "Storms are forming faster than ever, and not just in the sky."

Don nodded, his gaze distant. "Indeed. We face a tempest of blades and betrayal, Caria. From unseen hands."

Behind them, Leinara approached with Commander Stagri Veyeb, her posture rigid with urgency. The older man, a veteran of countless patrols, bowed stiffly to Don. "My lord, the western barracks are fortified as you commanded. But one of the outer wardstones was tampered with tonight. My daughter found the breach before it could fully activate."

Leinara's gaze was sharp, her voice tight with a cold certainty. "Someone was trying to let something in—or, perhaps, trying to let something out."

Caria's expression darkened, her magical senses flaring with disgust. "It wasn't just physical sabotage, Don. It was spellcrafted. This wasn't done by soldiers or bandits. This was someone trained in Thornf magic. Someone who knows our wards."

Don turned fully toward them, his eyes narrowing. "Which means a traitor within these very walls."

Stormhearth Keep, House Griffor: Mounting Pressure

Miles away, in the granite fastness of Stormhearth Keep, rain lashed mercilessly against the stained-glass windows of Earl Varant Griffor's war room. The chamber was lit by the flickering, unsteady light of storm lanterns. Earl Varant, a mountain of a man, stood hunched over a large coastal map, his face grim. His son Goesri stood beside him, soaked in wet leathers, his expression a grim mask.

"Tidorian banners are being raised on the ruins of Hailch's frontier forts, Father," Goesri reported, his voice raspy. "And that Wraith... it's real. I saw it myself. It moved like smoke, walking past our scouts as if they were nothing. The very shadows recoiled from its presence."

Varant's brow furrowed, a deep canyon etched into his face. "What does it want, Goesri? Not land, surely."

"Not land, but lives," said Lady Sylrene Griffor, stepping from the deep shadows of an alcove, her voice as sharp and clear as ice. "It wants bloodlines. Power sealed in blood. It feeds on the remnants of ancient might."

Varant turned to her, his gaze intense. "And ours, Sylrene? Our Griffor blood?"

"Safe. For now," she replied, a faint, chilling tremor in her voice. "But the Crown leans on us, heavily. We received a message this morning. A decree. They want House Griffor to swear open, undeniable loyalty—or suffer punitive levies on our trade, on our very existence."

The Earl's massive hand crushed the parchment in his fist, crumpling it into a tight ball. "They want us divided, Sylrene. Weak. Acknowledging Tidor's claim. We'll give them thunder instead. Prepare Stormwatch. Double the patrols, triple the mages."

Thornshell Archives: A Deeper Mystery

Meanwhile, deep beneath Thornshell's sprawling library, within a sealed chamber humming with ancient power, Quina Adraels moved with focused intensity. Magical runes glowed faintly beneath her bare feet on the crystal-tiled floor, casting an ethereal light.

"They tried to rewrite a containment seal here," she muttered, her fingers tracing a faded, intricate glyph on the stone wall. "But whoever did it... they didn't understand what they were truly tampering with. This wasn't just a simple ward. This was part of an old binding ritual. Maybe even part of the Pale Wraith's original prison, centuries ago."

A librarian-mage, a nervous-looking man with spectacles perched on his nose, looked concerned. "Do you believe it's waking up, Lady Quina? The Wraith itself?"

"No," Quina said, her voice firm, her eyes bright with a dangerous intellectual thrill. "I think it's hunting. Actively. And it's using the same methods it used to try and break something here."

Warsenbrenn Royal Palace: The Crown's Gambit

At the heart of the kingdom, within the cold, precise walls of the Warsenbrenn Royal Palace, Crown Prince Strelm sat in his private study, reading through several urgent reports in silence. Queen Yssara stood nearby, regal and still, her arms crossed, as a royal steward waited breathlessly for a command.

"Don Adraels grows louder," Strelm said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, yet carrying an undercurrent of irritation. "He moves between courts like he belongs to them. A very dangerous habit."

"He does belong to them, Strelm," the Queen replied, her voice like ice-melt over stone. "He is their chosen. And that is precisely what makes him so dangerous to us."

King Medveick, seated by a roaring hearth, swirling a cup of dark wine, spoke at last, his voice deceptively soft. "It is time to force the hand of neutrality. Send riders to Griffor, Thornf, and Aetheria. Offer protection from the chaos that Tidor and this 'Wraith' are sowing. Require tribute in kind—soldiers, resources, loyalty."

Strelm added, his eyes glittering with cold calculation, "And summon Don Adraels to court. Let the summons be a formal, inescapable demand for him to present himself before the Crown. If he refuses, he declares himself a rebel. If he comes, he declares himself subservient."

Nightfall, Thornshell Keep: A Vision and an Ambush

Nightfall descended over Thornshell, yet for Don, sleep remained an impossible luxury. He stood alone in a torchlit corridor of the keep, the Obsidian Flame Pendant pulsing gently against his chest. A vision struck him then, sudden and violent—a storm-ravaged battlefield, vast and desolate. Black banners, tattered and torn by an unseen wind, flapped against a crimson sky. A conqueror in dark gold plate, a twisted, glorified version of his own armor, stood atop a mound of ash. Behind him, a massive, sealed tomb—a tomb he instinctively knew lay beneath Thornshell itself.

He staggered back against the cold stone, the horrifying implication searing into his mind. Before he could fully process the vision, a knock, sharp and urgent, broke the air. Leinara entered swiftly, her face tense, followed by Dvrik. "We have trouble," Leinara said, her voice low. "Dvrik intercepted a runner from the southern wall. Something's moving in the woods near the old Thornf watchtower."

Don tightened his cloak, the command already forming on his lips. "Wake Commander Veyeb. I want a scouting party ready in five minutes. This isn't a patrol. This is a hunt."

The old watchtower lay crumbling on a misty hill east of the city. Commander Stagri Veyeb led the vanguard, his seasoned blade drawn. Don, Caria, Leinara, and Dvrik followed close behind. Torchlight danced across cracked stone. A shadow moved—then another. Before the warning could be shouted, arrows, fletched with dark feathers, sang through the air.

"Ambush!" Veyeb roared.

Dark-cloaked figures surged from the woods—skilled assassins, their movements fluid and deadly.

Don drew his blade of obsidian flame, its dark fire shimmering as it deflected a strike aimed for his heart. Caria's staff flared with brilliant lightning, casting blinding arcs through two foes. Leinara parried with feral grace, while Dvrik tackled an attacker, crushing his skull with a single, brutal, mailed fist.

The last assassin fell with a gurgled gasp, his form dissolving not like flesh, but like smoke caught in a breeze, leaving behind only the scent of ozone and cold dust. Silence fell once more, broken only by their ragged breaths.

Caria knelt by one of the corpses, her brow furrowed. She pulled back the attacker's hood, revealing a burned, indelible sigil marked on the throat—an eye inside a cruel, stylized fang.

Don recognized it instantly, a cold dread seeping into his bones. "The Pale Wraith's agents."