Ash whispered through the air like snow, though it burned faintly against the skin.

The ruin’s silence shattered as the Ashborn moved closer, their figures flickering in and out of sight like candle flames in wind. They were not men, not ghosts — but something between, a memory refusing to fade.

Their bodies were little more than drifting cinders shaped into mockery of limbs and faces. Their eyes glowed ember-red, empty of thought yet filled with hunger.

Lakvenor cracked his storm-staff across the flagstones, sparks racing down its length. “I hate this already.”

Rael stepped forward, Flame-Edge humming to life, its crystal blade catching both moonlight and firelight in equal measure. “Stay close. They are remnants, not soldiers. They will test our resolve, not our strength.”

“Wonderful,” Lakvenor muttered, “let’s see if they resolve not to bite me.”

Sira raised her hands, threads of green light twining between her fingers like vines reaching for sun. Her face was calm, though her eyes betrayed unease. “They are echoes,” she whispered. “Souls bound to ash, crying to be remembered.”

The first Ashborn lunged.

It moved with jerking speed, like smoke pulled against wind. Its arm, a stream of glowing embers, slashed toward Rael’s chest. He pivoted, Flame-Edge cutting through it with a hiss. The creature split like firewood, scattering ash into the air — yet its fragments pulled together again, reshaping into form.

“They don’t stay dead!” Lakvenor shouted, staff spinning as lightning leapt from its tips, blasting another Ashborn apart.

“Not dead,” Rael said grimly, “because they were never alive.”

The ruins came alive with battle. Shadows poured from the temple’s broken archways, rising from the cracked earth, from the hollowed statues that had once been gods. Each Ashborn carried fragments of memory — some wept silently, others clawed as if still in war, some stretched hands as though begging for light.

Sira’s voice rose above the din, a chant woven with both sorrow and strength. Green light pulsed from her palms, bursting into a wave that pushed the Ashborn back. Where the glow touched, embers dimmed — not destroyed, but soothed, as if the ash itself remembered rest.

“Good,” Rael called, parrying another strike. “Keep them at bay!”

Lakvenor’s staff whirled, lightning arcs cutting through the darkness. “Easier said than done, brother! There are too many!”

Indeed, they swarmed — dozens, maybe more, circling like wolves. Each one reforming no matter how many times they were struck down.

Rael felt sweat burn his brow. They could not win this fight by blade and storm alone.

Then, amid the chaos, he saw it — an altar, half-buried in ash, its runes faintly glowing beneath the ruin’s dust. Not dead. Waiting.

“The altar!” Rael shouted. “It binds them here!”

Sira’s eyes widened with sudden understanding. She pressed her hand to the earth, and the ground itself responded. Roots burst from stone, wrapping the altar in coils of living green. The runes flared, bright as dawn, and for a heartbeat the Ashborn froze mid-strike.

Their eyes dimmed. Their bodies unraveled into smoke and drifted away, scattering into the night sky like fireflies at dusk.

Silence fell.

The three of them stood among the ashes, chests heaving, weapons dimming. The ruins were still again, though their silence now felt lighter, cleansed.

Lakvenor collapsed onto a cracked step, staff across his knees. “If the rest of exile looks like this, I want a refund.”

Sira lowered her hands, her glow fading. Her voice was soft but resolute. “The Ashborn are not monsters. They are the price of old wars left unpaid. Unless the world changes, more will rise.”

Rael gazed at the altar, its runes fading once more into dormancy. He thought of Calithra’s prophecy. Of the court’s whispers. Of the path unraveling before him.

“Then exile may be the only way,” he said quietly. “Better me cast into ash than Solara.”

Sira turned sharply to him, but said nothing. The bond between them trembled with both protest and understanding.

Lakvenor looked up, sparks still flickering faintly across his hands. “Exile? You mean to accept their lies?”

Rael sheathed Flame-Edge, the sound ringing through the ruin like final judgment. “Not their lies. Their fear. If staying means tearing Solara apart, then I will go. The realm must not break because of me.”

The words tasted like ash in his mouth. But in the silence that followed, he knew — the first step of prophecy had already been taken.

Above them, the twin eclipses still lingered, one ringed in fire, the other drowned in shadow. Watching. Waiting.