The Price of Names

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Names have power.

Not because they define you, but because they remind the world that you exist.

And now, after facing the First Flame… Aedric's name would no longer be whispered in the dark. It would be spoken in fear.

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The trek out of the Ember Tomb was silent.

The torches lining the path had died, leaving only the faint glow of Aedric's Heartbrand to illuminate the jagged obsidian walls. Lyara kept close to him, her hand brushing his shoulder every now and then—not for comfort, but to remind herself he was still there. Still real.

But Aedric…

He was somewhere else entirely.

The battle with the Ember-King hadn't left wounds on his flesh—but it had left fractures in his spirit. And something inside him felt… incomplete.

> That mark... that circle... it wasn't a seal. It was a beginning.

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When they reached the surface, night had fallen across the Shattered Vale. The sky above was a canvas of broken constellations, their light flickering behind veils of drifting ash. Storms brewed far to the east, where the Dreadwall Mountains clawed toward the heavens.

Waiting.

Watching.

The world was stirring.

Aedric dropped to his knees on the stone platform, drawing in slow breaths. Each inhale burned, not from exhaustion—but from something older waking inside him.

Lyara knelt beside him, voice low.

> "That wasn't just a memory... was it?"

Aedric didn't answer right away. He clenched his fist, watching a small flicker of white flame rise from his palm. Cold. Ethereal.

> "He was real," Aedric finally said. "And he knew me. As if I… was him."

Lyara's brows furrowed. "You are him. Or at least… what's left of him."

> "I'm not a shadow," Aedric said coldly. "I won't be someone else's legacy."

But in his heart, he wasn't so sure.

Because when the Ember-King had looked at him—it hadn't been hate in his eyes.

It had been pity.

---

The silence was broken by a low growl behind them.

Caelen emerged from the treeline, cloak torn, his blade still smoking from recent combat. Behind him came two surviving members of the Crimson Vow, their armor dented and bleeding.

> "You're alive," Caelen said, relief mixing with fury. "We thought the tomb had collapsed."

> "It almost did," Lyara muttered.

> "Did you find it?" Caelen asked, eyes narrowing. "The relic?"

Aedric looked up slowly.

> "I found a truth."

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They camped at the edge of the Vale that night.

The others slept in shifts, wary of what else might stir in the broken land. But Aedric could not rest. He stood at the cliff's edge, watching the stars fade behind veils of smoke and fire.

That's when he heard it.

A whisper carried on the wind.

> Aedric... Valtoris…

He turned, expecting Lyara or Caelen—but saw no one.

Just the night.

Then the ground trembled softly.

A flicker of golden light cracked the sky in the distant north—far beyond the reach of mortal kingdoms. A tower of energy—vertical and sharp—pierced the heavens like a blade.

The others stirred at once.

Caelen rose. "What in the gods' names…"

> "A Rift," Lyara whispered. "A real one."

Aedric's voice was hollow.

> "Not just a Rift… a Gate."

And he knew, instinctively, what it meant.

> The seals were breaking.

> The ones the gods left behind when they chained the old world beneath the new.

> And now that he had awakened the First Flame, the others were stirring.

Not just ancient kings.

But things that had never died.

Things that had only waited.

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Far away, in the cold courts of the Undying Spire, a black-robed figure opened a tome of flesh and whispered Aedric's name.

It echoed once.

Then again.

Then the walls began to bleed.

> "The Ashborn walks," said the figure.

> "The boy who carries the ruin of gods in his blood."

> "Send the Heralds."

> "Begin the War of Names."

---

Aedric turned from the Vale, his hand unconsciously resting over the Heartbrand.

The second sigil—the white circle—was no longer dormant.

It pulsed.

Calling.

Challenging.

Not just him…

But anyone who dared to remember his name.

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