The Road of Ash and Iron

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The Bone Marches weren't on any official map.

Because no cartographer had returned with a mind intact.

It was said the ground itself remembered war too well—tasted too much blood, held too many secrets. Wind carried whispers. The fog never lifted. And the bones that littered the path weren't just from soldiers.

Some were still warm.

---

They set out at dawn.

Riven led, hood drawn low. Lyra walked beside him, silent but steady. Kael trailed slightly behind, scouting the edges of their path with sharp eyes and a growing frown.

"Don't like this," he muttered, pressing his boot into ash-coated soil. "It's too quiet."

Liora didn't look up from her glyph reader. "There's a reason for that. Nothing alive wants to stay here."

Elen, flanking the rear, unslung her long blade without a word.

They all felt it.

That... tension.

Like they'd stepped not into a battlefield—but into a memory of one.

---

The road ahead was marked by shattered armor, half-sunken banners, and spears lodged in the cracked stone like dead flowers in a vase. Some still bore the crests of old houses—long since fallen.

Lyra paused at one broken helm, kneeling to examine it.

"Valenhart crest," she said quietly.

Riven didn't turn. "My grandfather fought here."

"Against who?"

"The Eclipse."

Kael frowned. "This far back? But the Order didn't exist yet."

"No," Riven said. "But the roots did."

---

By midday, the air grew thicker.

The fog pressed closer. Shadows flickered along the edges of the trail. And the silence grew not just oppressive—but personal.

Liora stumbled suddenly.

Riven turned. "What is it?"

She looked pale. "I heard something."

Elen, voice cold: "There's no wind."

They all drew weapons.

Then the ground shifted.

And something screamed beneath it.

---

From the ash, corpses rose—not walking, but writhing.

Not undead.

Not spirit-bound.

Just remnants—burned into the soil by magic so violent it etched memory into matter.

Kael shouted, "Hold formation!"

Too late.

The ash exploded.

---

Riven's blade was already in motion, cutting through the first spectral wraith that launched from the dust. It had no eyes, just a face locked in permanent agony. He didn't flinch.

Lyra ducked beneath a spear of bone, her own blade slicing a clean arc across the midsection of another ashborn.

Kael fired a bolt of flame into the ground—igniting a buried trap before it could trigger.

Liora shouted from behind, "They're not alive, but they can kill! The spirits are echoes—they latch onto memory!"

Riven snarled, "Then give them something to remember."

---

He surged forward, cloak flaring behind him.

Magic sparked along his arms—unfettered now. No Seal. No curse.

He let fire erupt from one hand, ice lance from the other.

The battlefield responded.

The air shivered as he unleashed a whirlwind of pure will, striking down three phantoms in a single breath.

The others regrouped behind him.

Kael grinned. "You've been holding back."

Riven didn't smile.

He turned, eyes burning.

"I'm just starting."

---

When the last ash-echo fell, silence reclaimed the valley.

But it was not peace.

The ground beneath their feet still pulsed—like something was watching.

Waiting.

Elen sheathed her blade. "Whatever that was… wasn't the worst of it."

"I know," Riven said.

Lyra placed a hand on his arm. "What's ahead?"

He hesitated.

Then answered quietly.

"The Warden of Iron."

---

They camped in the hollow of an old war trench that night.

Riven stood alone on watch.

The stars above the Bone Marches were distant, faint. Even the sky seemed reluctant to watch this place.

Veyron's voice emerged like smoke. Not playful.

> You should turn back.

"Not happening."

> You're going to wake him.

"I know."

> You're not ready.

Riven turned to the shadow of the ruined watchtower in the distance.

"I've never been ready."

---

In the darkness beyond camp, Kael stirred restlessly in his sleep.

And dreamed of fire.

Of chains.

Of a voice whispering in a language older than fear.

When he woke, he didn't speak.

He just looked at Riven.

And gripped his sword tighter.

---

At dawn, the fog pulled back like a curtain.

Revealing the ruins ahead.

Twisted iron trees. A field of shattered blades.

And at the center—a massive figure seated on a throne of rusted steel, unmoving.

Kael's breath caught. "That's not a statue."

"No," Riven said.

"That's the Warden."

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