The ore in the walls glows brighter, reacting to my presence—and to his.
The wards flicker again, Alaric’s sigils flaring blue for a heartbeat before dimming under a tide of oily magic.
“You think ending the dreams will free you?” I demand, the flames inside me, surrounding me, lick higher. “You think unmaking hope will make you a god? You are deluded.”
“I think,” Idris says softly, stepping closer, the whispering souls swirling faster around him, “that anything built can be unbuilt. And anything that binds can be broken. Including crowns. Including realms. Including you.”
The staff in his hand slams into the stone.
The world convulses.
A wave of null-magic crashes through the chamber, tearing at my fire, trying to smother it.
My flames shrink, crackling in protest.
The bone mask on my face throbs, splitting pain through my skull.
For an instant, my bond to Delia flares white-hot.
She is far. Too far. But I feel her.
Fear. Rage. Determination.
“Stay back,” I snarl down the bond, even though I know she cannot hear words—only the rough shape of my intent.
Idris’s eyes sharpen.
“Ah,” he breathes. “So the rumors are true. You went to Earth. You took a mortal. You, like the other two.” His smile widens, vile and delighted. “How touching. Does she scream for you, little spark? Or has she seen the monster beneath your skin yet?”
Rage blinds me.
My wings flare, slamming into the walls, sending showers of molten stone cascading around us. I hurl a lance of pure flame at him, hot enough to melt rock.
He raises his staff.
The fire splits around him, hissing, deflected by a shroud of swirling shadows.
“Such power,” he muses. “Such waste. You guard the Vein as if it were a holy relic, when it is nothing but raw fuel for a broken machine.”
Behind him, deeper in the tunnels, I feel it.
A gnawing. A pulling.
His followers, burrowing like parasites toward The Ember Vein’s central artery.
I cannot let them reach it.
“I will burn you to ash,” I hiss, stepping closer, pushing my fire harder against the null-magic pressing in. “You. Your cult. Every SoulTaker who dares set foot on my land.”
He laughs again.
“I do not need to defeat you, Thorne of the Broken Plains,” he says. “I only need to distract you.”
Then he spreads his arms.
The dead miners around us jerk.
Their bodies twist, bones cracking, mouths opening in silent screams as black veins bulge and burst. Necrotic flame bursts from their chests, coalescing into new shapes—half-formed SoulTakers with hollow eyes and teeth made of ore-shards.
