The smoke clung thick in the canyon air.

Charred wagons leaned at odd angles, iron chains broken and scattered across blood-soaked stone. The bodies of Crown soldiers and rebel fighters lay where they'd fallen, vultures already circling.

Shina stood among the wreckage, her mask hanging loose around her neck.
Her hands were scraped and trembling, though she refused to notice.

Mirra crouched over a corpse, rifling through the man's pack.

"Any sign of the high-value?" Shina asked, voice raw.

Mirra shook her head. "No bodies marked Abdou. No prisoners by that name made it out either."

"Then he's still alive," Shina muttered.

Mirra gave her a flat look. "Or ash. Either way, we move."

Shina's stomach twisted, but she wasn't letting go of it.

On the far side of the wreckage, Mazen — Mark Arkios — wiped a smear of blood from his jaw, staring at the twisted remains of the lead wagon.

Calen Wolfscar spat into the dirt beside him.
"Half the convoy's gone. A waste of bodies and blood."

"Any prisoners recovered?" Mazen asked, not knowing why he cared.

"Few. None worth the bounty."

Mazen looked down at a scrap of parchment clutched in a dead soldier's hand — a torn piece of a prisoner manifest. Most of the names unreadable, but one word caught his eye.

Abdou.

His throat tightened.

It can't be.

He crumpled it and tossed it into the smoldering wreckage.

Shadow appeared beside him.
"Forget it," he said, voice low. "This war eats ghosts."

Mazen didn't answer.

Later that evening, as both rebel bands pulled back toward their respective camps, scattered scouts began murmuring about something worse.

Not just patrols. Not just bounty hunters.

Crown armies moving near the old mountain passes.

Near the temples.

Something ancient was stirring.

And both sides could feel it in their bones.

The old keep at Emberfall was little more than jagged stone walls and shattered battlements, but it had one thing the rebels needed — deep rooms, hidden from the sky.

Shina followed Mirra through winding corridors lit by flickering torches. The air smelled of old ash and cold stone.

They reached the council chamber — a wide, circular room with a firepit in the center and a crude map of Vortrex carved into the floor.

Figures gathered around it: clan leaders, rebel commanders, mercenary captains. Rough faces, tired eyes. No banners, no ceremony. Just war-hardened survivors.

Mirra motioned for Shina to stay near the wall.

"Listen," she muttered. "And keep your mask close."

At the table's center, a thick-shouldered man named Thalric Vorn, commander of the Emberfall defense, spoke first.

"Convoy's gone," he growled. "Half our force bleeding in the hollow, no prize worth the bodies we left."

A mutter of agreement.

Another, a wiry scout captain, leaned forward.
"It's not just us. Word from Frostmere says Crown patrols are pulling back from the old trade routes. Reinforcements moving east. Toward the temples."

The word hung in the air like a blade.

Temples.

Someone spat into the dirt.

"They wouldn't move troops for superstition."

"They would," Mirra said quietly. "If they believe what's sleeping there is waking."

A heavy silence followed.

Shina's skin prickled.
The word alone felt like ice in her chest.

Temples. Monsters. Mazen's father.

Something was shifting in Vortrex. And it wasn't just war.

The council chamber grew heavy with silence.

Then, from the shadowed edge of the room, a ragged, half-blind old scout stepped forward. His long gray hair hung in tangles, and his skin was marked by deep scars.

Koran.

Most barely noticed him anymore.

But his voice, when it came, was like splintered stone.

"You think this is war," he rasped. "It's not."

All heads turned.

"It's the land waking. The old blood rising. The shadows remembering their names."

Thalric sneered. "Enough of your ghost stories, old man."

But Khoran ignored him. His pale eyes fixed on the map carved into the floor — where the Great Temple sat at the world's center.

"They've stirred it. The Crown. Fool priests and coward kings. They've disturbed what should have stayed buried."

He pointed a shaking finger.

"The Shadow Mind."

The name landed like a hammer.

Even the mercenaries stopped shifting.

Shina's blood ran cold.

She didn't know what it meant — but somehow, it felt tied to everything. To Abdou. To Mazen. To the dark tear she'd seen open that night in Cairo.

"Madness," Thalric growled. "Old temple myths."

But the unease in the room was real.

Mirra leaned toward Shina, whispering, "The old fool's seen too much. But sometimes… even fools tell the truth."

Shina gripped the edge of the table.

Shadow Mind.
She wouldn't forget that name.

Not now.

The ruined fortress had its weaknesses.

Shadow knew them all.

And so did Mark Arkios now, crouched in the high stone passage above the council chamber, the Kurozoku mask veiling his face. Thin cracks in the ancient wall let him see the room below.

The rebel leaders circled the map, voices rising and falling.

Mazen's heart thudded as he listened.

Talk of the failed convoy. Rumors of temple patrols.

And then — the old scout's voice cut through the haze.

"The Shadow Mind."

The words sent a chill down Mazen's spine.

Something inside him stirred. A pulse. A shadow in his bones he couldn't explain.

He didn't know what it meant.

But his father's name whispered in the back of his skull.

Abdou.

And for a single moment, he felt eyes on him.

Down in the chamber, Shina stiffened.

Her gaze flicked to the upper stonework, a twinge of instinct making the hairs on her neck rise.

She felt it — the same strange presence from Red Hollow.

Neither saw the other. Neither knew.

But fate's noose pulled one knot tighter.

Mazen slipped back into the dark, the name burning in his head.

Shadow Mind.

Thalric slammed his fist against the map.

"Strike now," he snarled. "Before the Crown fortifies those mountains. Burn every outpost between Emberfall and the Great Temple."

Others shouted back — older leaders urging patience, fearing the cost of open war on multiple fronts.

"This isn't about fear anymore," Mirra cut in sharply. "It's about time. The old powers are stirring, whether we like it or not."

A grudging silence fell.

In the end, the council splintered.

Some agreed to hit the eastern outposts along the Wind Wyrm's mountain. Others would move toward the South Temple.

Mirra's faction would handle the intercepts near the Great Temple passes.

Shina, jaw tight, claimed a place in the group heading east.

"I want that route," she said. No one argued.

On the other side of the valley, Shadow briefed Mazen.

"You'll move south," he ordered. "They'll be watching the center roads now. Stay masked. Stay alive. And if you hear the old names spoken — don't listen."

Mazen gave a sharp nod.

But inside, the name still echoed.

Shadow Mind.

The warpath was set.

And neither of them knew how close their roads would cross again.