The world had burned.
And now… it wept.
Ash drifted from the sky like silent snow, swirling through the hushed air across what remained of the Kingdoms of Flame. The sky, once a canvas of blistering reds and hell-born golds, now glowed a faint, apologetic gray. The Ninth Flame was no more. PRIMAL, the Undying Ember, had been unmade—his soul undone by the very force he believed he had mastered.
Atop the blackened ridge of Mt. Grathol, Dexter stood alone, his silhouette stark against the fading horizon. The wind tugged at the tattered edges of his armor. His sword—cracked, scorched, but still whole—rested across his back like an old burden refusing to be let go. Smoke curled from the shattered earth around him, but no demons stirred. No flames danced. No war drums beat.
The battlefield was a graveyard now.
Bones of ancient beasts and collapsed towers lay scattered across the land like the remains of a dream turned nightmare. This place, once vibrating with power, had gone still. Even the air seemed unsure if it should breathe again.
Dexter had done the impossible.
He had killed a god.
And yet, as he gazed across the scorched realm, all he felt was quiet. Not peace. Not triumph.
Just quiet.
He turned his eyes to the sky, to the place where the Convergence had once split the boundaries between realms like an old scar re-opened. The veil still trembled there, raw and fragile, as though the realm itself hadn't yet recovered from what had been torn through it.
His fingers brushed against the Ring on his hand—still warm, still pulsing.
It had brought him power.
And it had brought him home.
With one final breath of sulfur-choked air, Dexter stepped through the veil.
Earth – Present Day
Dayton, Ohio – Suburban West Side
Rain trickled in soft sheets over the rooftops and sidewalks, washing the streets in a silver haze. The city felt smaller than he remembered—quieter, somehow, like it had been holding its breath while he was gone.
A warm breeze drifted through the narrow alley behind 714 Aspen Grove Drive, rustling plastic wrappers and forgotten leaves. Then, with the faintest flicker of heat—barely more than a candle's sigh—Dexter returned.
He stood still for a moment, letting the rain touch his face, letting Earth's air fill his lungs. It didn't taste of ash or blood. No sulfur. No fire. Just wet grass, old pavement, and the scent of honeysuckle wafting from a neighbor's fence.
He was home.
The basketball hoop, still crooked, leaned over the driveway like an old friend who had waited too long. The lawn was a mess—wild and overgrown, like it had given up pretending someone might come trim it. A wind chime on the porch tinkled softly, a lonely sound against the quiet street.
He stepped forward slowly, boots thudding gently against concrete. The porch creaked under his weight, and for a moment, he hesitated.
Then the front door opened.
"Dexter?"
His mother stood there in an old OSU sweatshirt, her graying hair pulled back, slippers half-falling off her feet. Her eyes were wide. Disbelieving.
Dexter opened his mouth, tried to speak, but no words came.
So she stepped forward and wrapped him in her arms.
It wasn't delicate. It wasn't cautious. It was desperate. Raw. The kind of hug born not just from love, but from waiting through years of silence, fear, and unspoken prayers.
Dexter melted into it. For the first time in a long time, he let himself be held.
Inside, the house was a living time capsule. The same old furniture. The same hum of the too-loud refrigerator. The pictures still hung crooked on the hallway wall—photos of birthdays, graduations, and happier times. A dent still marred the drywall where teenage Dexter once threw a controller in frustration.
He sat at the kitchen table, watching his mom fuss at the stove. She was reheating frozen lasagna and brewing tea, just like she always did when she didn't know what else to say.
"You look thinner," she said, not turning around.
"I killed a god," Dexter replied, half-smiling.
She glanced over her shoulder. "And still couldn't call your mother?"
He chuckled, the sound rough from disuse. "I was... busy."
She set the plate down in front of him. "So was I. Worrying."
They ate mostly in silence after that. Not awkward silence—just the kind shared between people who had too much to say, and no idea where to begin. He didn't tell her everything. Not yet. Some things were too big for a kitchen table in Ohio.
But he told her enough.
Enough for her to understand why his eyes had changed.
Later that night, Dexter sat on the hood of an old car at the edge of town. The rain had stopped, and the sky stretched wide above him, dotted with stars that didn't burn or scream.
He wore a black hoodie now, the hood up against the cool breeze. His demon armor was gone, dissolved when he crossed the veil. All that remained was the Ring on his hand, pulsing faintly—not with power, but memory.
A part of him had hoped coming home would feel like the end of something.
But it didn't.
It felt like the pause before the next breath.
Behind him, the familiar creak of the front door echoed.
"You just gonna sit out there all night?" his mother called.
"Just thinking," Dexter said without turning.
"Well, don't think so hard you miss dinner," she replied. "You're home now. You deserve warmth again."
He smiled faintly.
Home.
But even as he stared out into the quiet, he felt it—that itch at the edge of perception. A chill along the back of his neck. The way the Ring's pulse shifted slightly, like a warning clearing its throat.
Something was wrong.
Across the street, the broken windows of the old gas station reflected nothing. Not the lamplight. Not the stars. Shadows flickered where there should have been none—shapes that bent around corners without touching the ground.
Dexter watched them. Blinked.
They were gone.
He stood slowly, fingers curling into fists.
He wasn't the only one who had crossed the veil.
That night, something strange happened.
In his old bedroom—walls still plastered with faded band posters and a cracked window that never quite closed right—Dexter stared at a small ember hovering just above his desk.
It had appeared an hour after he returned.
No sound. No heat. Just floating there, like a memory that refused to settle.
He reached out to it. The Ring on his hand flared faintly, and the ember responded—pulsing in sync.
"You're not a demon," Dexter said quietly. "And you're definitely not human."
The ember shimmered once more.
Then it vanished.
A whisper followed—thin, almost too quiet to hear. It slid through the room like smoke under a door.
"The Flame never truly dies."
Dexter sat still for a long time after that.
He didn't sleep.
At exactly 3:22 a.m., the town's emergency sirens wailed.
It wasn't for a tornado. Not for fire. Not even for flood.
It was something else.
Dexter was already on his feet when it started, his body trained from a thousand battles. He threw on his coat and reached under the bed, where his sword lay wrapped in cloth and nightmares.
Cinderglass.
Forged from the last breath of PRIMAL and quenched in the ash of fallen gods. A blade born from endings. Cold to the touch, but hot with purpose.
He stepped out into the night—and saw it.
Above the old church downtown, the sky had torn open. A rift hung like a wound across reality, jagged and pulsing with a sick, shifting light. It wasn't divine. It wasn't hellish.
It was something else.
Figures emerged from it—one by one.
The first slammed into the ground with a sound like thunder cracking bones. Its armor was blackened and heavy, breathing steam into the cold air. Its eyes glowed dim orange, like dying coals still clinging to warmth.
Behind it came more—seven in total. They moved as one, but each bore a different symbol across their chests. Symbols that shimmered with both flame and frost, memory and mourning.
Dexter gripped his blade tightly. "You're not from any Circle I've seen."
The lead figure stepped forward, voice metallic and hollow. "No. We are what's left when gods fall and fire forgets its name."
"What are you?"
"We are the Ashborn."
The name echoed in Dexter's bones like a bell tolling through a graveyard.
"And what do the Ashborn want?" he asked.
The figure paused. Its helm cracked open slightly, revealing skin like charred stone and eyes rimmed with sorrow.
"To rewrite what was broken," it said. "The Ring shattered the prison. The Convergence tore the veil. But the world cannot remain unbalanced. A price must still be paid."
Dexter raised his blade. "So what—you want war?"
The Ashborn didn't move. "No," it said.
Then, after a pause that felt like centuries:
"We want justice."
To Be Continued…