Deep beneath the surface of the continent, where no map dared draw its lines, a fortress slumbered in obsidian silence.

Carved into the spine of a dead mountain, Ob’Kareth—the Hall of Forgotten Flames—breathed with flickering braziers lit not by fire, but by corrupted soulflame: a cold, violet burn that whispered in tongues long forbidden.

The air smelled of old blood, scorched incense, and the iron rot of prophecy unfulfilled.

From the shadows, they gathered.

The Cloaked Ones.

Twelve in total—hooded, faceless, each wearing the insignia of a fractured flame coiled by a serpent.

At the center stood one without a hood. His face was unscarred, young, too perfect—like a mannequin sculpted by a god who had long since lost his love for mortals. His eyes were silver, his hair snow-white, and his voice—

“He lives.”

It was not a question.

A ripple passed through the chamber like a silent tremor.

“The Reborn Knight walks the earth once more,” another rasped, their tongue too long for a human mouth.

“Impossible,” muttered a third, voice like cracking parchment. “The Seal of the Eternal Flame was complete. He should have dissolved into ash.”

The pale figure stepped forward, boots clicking against ancient stone.

“The gods changed the rules.”

“Then we change the game.”

They called him Valek the Hollow-Fanged.
Chosen by the Black Tribunal, forged in hatred of the old Flame, a man once human—now something far worse.

His soul bore no weight. No guilt. No echo.

A perfect vessel.

“Deploy the Ashborn,” Valek ordered.

The cloaked ones bowed low.

“And send her,” he added.

That paused them.

“You would unleash… that already?”

“Auren Dragmir cannot be allowed to anchor himself. The longer he walks, the more the world remembers him. The karmic flame is addictive… to the hearts of men.”

A beat of silence.

“Then she will be sent,” they whispered. “The Fang will feast.”

Far to the east, beneath a crumbling shrine where dragons once roosted, a girl knelt in prayer.

No older than eighteen. Pale hair. Crimson eyes. A serpent coiled around her shoulders, breathing in rhythm with her still heart.

“Lythera,” a voice called from the shrine’s mouth.

She turned, slowly.

“It’s time.”

She smiled.

“Does he still bleed?”

“He remembers nothing.”

“Even better.”

As she rose, her shadow stretched far too long.

Meanwhile, back in the twilight ruins, Auren felt something stir.

He did not know her name. Had never met her.
Yet the air itself recoiled.

Somewhere deep within him, the flame whispered a single word:

“Fang.”

“When the past refuses to die, it sends hunters instead of ghosts.”
                                                                          — Scrolls of the Ashborn