13.1 – The Unseen Ash
The snow hadn't come yet, but the wind bit like it had.
Rian pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he passed the burnt treeline. Even weeks after the fire, the air still held that acrid scent—the ghost of something charred and gone. The village beyond had been small, nameless to most, but the loss felt intimate. Like a wound someone kept pressing just to make sure it still hurt.
He crouched beside the well, fingers grazing the soot-caked stone. The wind sighed past him, tugging at the edge of his hood.
"You shouldn't have come alone."
He didn't flinch at the voice behind him.
Yriel stepped into view, her boots crunching over dead leaves. She looked out of place here—clean leathers, polished hilt, her hair tied back too neatly for a ruin like this. Rian smiled without humor.
"Didn't know I needed an escort to mourn," he said.
Yriel frowned. "You knew them?"
"No." He stood. "But I was the one who ignored the warning. I was the one who said it was just a patrol skirmish. That nothing would spill over."
"You weren't the only one."
He looked at her then, really looked. Her eyes were tired—not the kind that came from sleepless nights, but from carrying too many secrets.
"They're moving again," she said, dropping her voice. "We intercepted a message this morning. Coded, but we broke most of it."
"Dravien?"
"Worse. Dravien with help."
Rian's jaw tightened. "From whom?"
"We're not sure. The language was fragmented, but there were references to a 'northern shadow.' Some think it's just another unit. But others…"
"Others think it's her."
Yriel nodded once. "Sera."
They both stood in silence.
Rian turned back toward the scorched earth. "And Kael?"
"Still with her."
He exhaled slowly. "Then the next fire's already started. We just haven't seen the smoke yet."
Yriel didn't argue. She only stepped beside him, and together they stared down at what the flame had left behind.
Not ruins.
Not ash.
Just silence—and the promise of another war.
13.2 – No Saints in the Smoke
It was past midnight when the stranger crossed into camp.
No torches lit his path. No sound announced his arrival. He simply appeared—hood drawn low, boots silent against the brittle grass. The sentries didn't stop him. They didn't even see him.
Tarn was the first to notice something wrong. The air shifted. The night held its breath.
He reached for the blade at his belt but froze when the stranger lifted a gloved hand.
"No need," the voice rasped. "I come with news. Not violence."
Tarn didn't relax. He never did. "News for who?"
The hood lifted just enough for firelight to catch a pale scar down the man's jaw. "For Rian. And the one they call Yriel."
Tarn's hand didn't move from his hilt. "You have a name?"
The man smiled without warmth. "I had one once. It was taken, like most things worth remembering."
It was Rian who stepped forward then, his coat half-buttoned and his hair still damp from the cold river where he'd tried to rinse away the day.
"Talk," Rian said.
The man dipped his head. "The border's bleeding again. Four villages, gone. Not burned—emptied. Not a scream. Not a trace."
Yriel appeared behind Rian, silent and sharp-eyed.
"They weren't Dravien attacks," the man went on. "Not fully. They wear the banners, but their weapons are older. Forged north of the Weeping Pass. Some say they come from the Hollow Vale."
Yriel narrowed her eyes. "That's a myth."
"Then your myth walks," the man said. "And it walks in silence."
Rian turned to Yriel. "The Vale's supposed to be sealed. Dead."
"It was sealed," she said. "But there were rumors a few winters back. A splinter group. Exiles from the old wars. People no side would claim."
"Mercenaries?"
"Worse. Believers."
The word hung between them like a curse.
The man stepped forward, slower now, his voice low. "You'll want to look east. Beyond the crags. There's something building there. Something cold."
Rian studied him. "Why warn us?"
"I fought beside Kael once," the man said. "Before he followed her. Before he forgot the cost."
Yriel stiffened. "Then why not go to him now?"
"I did. He wouldn't listen."
A gust of wind rattled the trees. The fire cracked, loud in the hush.
The man turned, pulling his hood back up. "You have three days. Maybe less."
"Three days for what?" Rian asked.
The man paused. "To choose a side. Not in war—in what comes after."
Then he vanished into the dark like a ghost swallowed by smoke.
13.3 – A Quiet That Wasn't Peace
The morning after the stranger's warning felt like a hush before thunder.
Camp moved slower. The usual rhythm—boots stomping, iron clanging, fires crackling—was there, but dulled. The scouts didn't joke over breakfast. The guards didn't grumble about shifts. Even the crows circling the treetops kept their distance.
Yriel walked through the tents with her arms crossed tight over her chest, mind turning faster than her feet. She hadn't slept. Not really. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw hollow-eyed villagers standing in silence, mouths sewn shut. She didn't know why her imagination kept going there. Maybe the stranger's tone. Maybe the mention of the Vale.
She hated not knowing.
She found Rian by the ridge, overlooking the valley beyond. The fog hadn't lifted yet. Shadows drifted across the hills like ghosts that hadn't made up their minds.
"You sent scouts?" she asked.
Rian nodded. "Before dawn. Two toward the east. One south to double-check the border."
"No word yet?"
He didn't answer right away. "No. And they're trained to report within three hours."
Yriel felt a pressure behind her eyes—not panic, not yet, but its first breath.
"They were good riders," Rian added, almost to himself. "Faster than most."
"They're either dead," she said, "or they saw something they don't know how to describe."
He looked over at her. "Which would you prefer?"
"Neither."
They stood in silence. Then Rian rubbed his jaw. "If this is about Kael again…"
"It's not."
"It feels like it is. That man came here because of Kael. He wouldn't have warned us otherwise."
"He didn't warn us," she said. "He gave us a countdown."
Rian said nothing.
Yriel exhaled through her nose, grounding herself. "We need to prepare for the possibility that something is coming we haven't fought before."
"You believe in the Vale now?"
"I believe in patterns," she said. "And this doesn't match anything we've seen. No survivors. No bodies. No signs of flight. Just emptiness. That's not war. That's something else."
Rian looked back out over the valley. "Three days."
Yriel nodded. "Then it begins."
13.4 – A Map of Things Not Said
The tent they used for planning had once belonged to Kael. No one said it aloud, but they all felt it—the gravity of absence. His name lingered like smoke in the corners, in the way people hesitated to sit in his old chair, or the way the oil lamp was still trimmed the way he had liked it.
Yriel stood at the center table, fingers pressed against the edge of a spread-out map. Pins marked the latest scout paths. Too many stopped halfway. Too many never made it to the border.
"They could've gotten turned around in the fog," Aric offered, though he didn't sound convinced. "It's thick as gravecloth out there."
"Then they should've come back," Yriel said without looking up.
Rian stepped in from the tent flap, brushing off mist from his cloak. "Still no sign of Ceyne or Mara. Westward patrol returned with nothing. Just ash where the trees used to be."
Yriel's eyes darted to him. "Ash?"
"Ground's scorched in patches. Burned black. But the trees didn't fall. Just… crisped, standing upright."
"Lightning?"
"No storms in the last week."
Yriel felt her pulse pick up. That wasn't natural. And worse—it was familiar. She had seen something like that once. A long time ago. A buried memory from the southern marches. When flame left no fire, only silence.
"I need you to see something," she said abruptly.
She turned and motioned to one of the aides, who unfurled a smaller, older map. Faded ink. Weathered edges. She tapped a spot well south of the valley.
"This was one of the last recorded incursions from the Vale," she said. "Decades ago. Officially, the Council never confirmed it. But I've spoken to one of the survivors. The marks here—burned trees, no bodies, fog that hung too long—they match."
Rian leaned in. "You think this is that again?"
"I think we're watching the same story start over. And I think Kael knew."
The tent fell silent.
Then Aric, younger than the rest, spoke up. "Why would he leave without saying anything?"
Yriel's voice was quiet, heavy. "Because if he said it, we'd try to stop him."
"And now?"
"Now we're in the middle of it, and we're blind."
Rian closed the map. "Then we prepare for war."
Yriel didn't answer. Not yet. Her eyes were still on the charred trees to the south, etched in faint ink and memory. She wasn't sure this was a war they could prepare for. Not if the enemy didn't come in lines or banners. Not if it came like a silence you couldn't breathe through.
Not if it was already here.
13.5 – When Smoke Tastes Like Memory
The smoke came with the dawn.
Not thick, not choking—but thin, persistent, the kind that clung to your clothes and your teeth. It curled under tents, found its way into lungs and dreams, left a metallic aftertaste that made sleep light and waking worse.
Thera Veyn rose with it.
She'd slept near the perimeter, back against a boulder, her sword across her knees. A habit from the border years—when waking slow might mean dying fast. She hadn't meant to sleep at all, but her body had other plans. Even stone breaks under weight.
She stood now, slow and stiff, and watched the way the gray wove through the trees like it knew something. There was no fire nearby. No wind. Just that creeping, crawling veil of ash.
"It's moving west," said the scout beside her.
Thera nodded, rubbing a thumb across her jaw. "But the wind's moving east."
The scout went quiet. Thera didn't press the point. There was no answer she'd want to hear anyway.
She stepped forward and crouched, tracing a line in the dirt with a twig. Three circles. One slash through the center.
"The same pattern we saw in the Rell Vale," she murmured. "And north of Morren's Pass."
"They weren't connected," the scout said. But even she sounded unsure now.
"Now they are."
Thera stood. "Wake the others. Quietly. Pack everything. We're leaving before full light."
"Where?"
"Back to the river," she said. "We don't move deeper into smoke. We watch it. From a distance."
The scout hesitated. "And if it follows?"
Thera met her eyes. "Then it's not smoke."
She turned away and began checking her armor. The straps were tighter than she remembered—either they'd shrunk, or she'd grown. Neither made her feel particularly prepared.
From a distance came the low hum of a warning horn. Not urgent. But not routine.
Thera's hand went to her sword.
Not yet, she thought. Not yet.
But something in her chest said otherwise.
Something in her bones whispered: Too late.
13.6 – The Things We Burn to Feel Safe
By nightfall, the smoke was gone.
Not thinned. Not scattered.
Gone.
As if it had never been there to begin with.
Thera Veyn stood at the river's edge, arms crossed over her chest, watching the water roll past. The current whispered of things it had seen upstream—soot in its skin, a strange oily shimmer on the surface. It didn't carry the smell of fire anymore, but it hadn't forgotten it either.
Behind her, camp was quiet. A dozen soldiers moved with practiced silence, too wary to pretend this was just another deployment. They'd seen strange things before. But this—this was different.
The forest had changed.
It no longer felt like terrain. It felt like a presence. Listening. Breathing. Waiting.
Thera hated waiting.
"You think it's a trick," said a voice behind her.
She didn't turn. "I know it is."
Virel Solmar stepped up beside her, cloak drawn tight against the cold. He looked tired. Not in the way a man gets from riding hard or fighting long—but the weariness that settles into your bones when too many things stop making sense.
"They say it was never fire," he said softly. "That there are places in the east where the earth exhales poison when it's angry."
Thera frowned. "I've heard that tale too. But this wasn't anger. This was… movement. Deliberate."
He said nothing. Which she preferred. Virel was at his best in silence.
"They saw symbols," she added after a moment. "Marked into trees near the last patrol route. Carved with something that burned without charring."
Virel didn't look surprised. "The same marks we found in the east?"
Thera nodded. "And on the old stone walls near Kael's last route through the Morren line."
His eyes narrowed. "You think this is connected to—?"
"I don't think." Her voice was cold. "I know."
He looked at her then, long and sharp, but she didn't flinch.
"You're suggesting he knew about this before he vanished."
"I'm not suggesting anything," she said. "I'm preparing for what comes next."
The air was still. No birds. No bugs. No sound but the water.
"If this is the same trail," Virel said slowly, "Then someone's been moving ahead of us for weeks. Cutting through border lines. Marking the path."
"And no one's seen them."
"Or," he added grimly, "everyone who did is already ash."
They stood in silence.
Behind them, a torch snapped in the wind. Someone laughed, too sharp, too fast—then caught themselves. The quiet returned.
"I think we're past the stage of pretending this is just a rogue group or a strange season," Virel said.
Thera didn't answer.
She reached into her cloak and pulled out the small, scorched pendant they'd found three days earlier. The metal was twisted, the etching almost lost—but not completely. She traced the line with her thumb.
A crescent moon. A sword beneath. And the faintest outline of a star at the hilt.
She hadn't told the others yet. Not even Virel. But she knew the sigil.
It belonged to the missing patrol from the Dravien side. The one Kael had led before everything changed.
The one that should've never crossed into her territory.
But had.
She tucked the pendant away before Virel saw it. He was good—but not that good.
Not yet.
Not until she knew what this really meant.
Because if the flames weren't wild—
If the smoke wasn't just smoke—
Then the real fire hadn't even started yet.