He has not only turned his back on every vow he ever made—he has torn them apart and sewn them into banners for the SoulTakers to wave.
He promises power to the broken, salvation to the bitter, glory to the cowardly.
They follow him like sheep with sharp teeth, their minds poisoned by easy dreams and corrupted fire.
I have seen what his disciples want for The Ember Vein.
They do not honor it.
They want to steal it. Twist it. Bleed it dry to forge weapons, not wonders.
Their magic is jagged, wrong.
It howls when it touches the ley lines—like the realm itself is trying to reject it.
They are not merely traitors.
They are the enemy of all of Nightfall.
And now they’ve crossed on to my land.
The flame inside me snarls.
We move deeper. The tunnels narrow, becoming more treacherous.
The black stone grows slick with heat-sweat, its veins of ember glowing brighter as we approach the heart of the forge.
The pulse of the Vein quickens, agitated by our presence—or perhaps warning us of what lies ahead.
Ward-light flickers along the carved archways. Ancient sigils pulse softly, as though confused. Disturbed.
The magic is still here.
But it’s been bruised.
Behind me, Grier mutters a prayer under his breath.
Dagan says nothing—but I feel his attention sharpen.
He senses it too.
The wrongness. The intrusion.
My knuckles flex around the hilt at my hip. The short sword sharp and ready.
If Idris thinks he can worm his way into my domain—into the sacred roots of Nightfall—then he has forgotten the most important lesson of all.
Fire remembers.
And it will not forgive.
Not this time.
Grier grunts as the descent gets steeper. He should be in better shape.
I raise an eyebrow, and he stumbles a foot, then rights himself.
The tunnels are not crude.
