The brittle wind cut like a blade through the thinning branches of the Rift's first layer, carrying the scent of scorched earth and ancient magic. Kaelien crouched behind a jagged rock, tracing the faintest trail of disturbance in the soil—broken twigs, a scrap of cloth snagged on a thorn, footprints barely visible beneath the layer of ash and frost. His firestones pulsed faintly against his palm, but the magic around here was restless, tangled with the Rift's primal energy, making it difficult to pinpoint Seren's path.
He had searched since the escape, and still, the Velmoran had slipped through his grasp like smoke. Each lead fractured, each sign swallowed by the Rift's strange, shifting terrain. He sighed, frustration prickling under his skin. The land itself seemed alive, a labyrinth of ancient power and growing danger.
Far below, Seren pressed deeper into the Rift's surface layer. The walls around her were no longer sheer cliffs of ice and stone, but strange crystalline growths pulsating with faint blue light. Riftlings, small and cautious, skittered in the shadows—no larger than cats but keenly aware of her presence. The deeper she ventured, the heavier the magic felt, like a slow heartbeat in the earth itself. The air was thicker, charged with power both beautiful and terrifying.
She paused at the edge of a cavernous hollow, letting her breath steady. Ahead lay the passage to the second layer—darker, colder, and far more dangerous. She could hear the distant echo of dripping water and faint, unplaceable whispers that made her skin crawl. Yet she knew she couldn't linger here forever.
If she hesitated, Ellen's hunters would find her. If she descended unprepared, she risked the unknown below.
Seren clenched her jaw, gathering strength. I am Velmora's daughter, she thought. And I will protect what remains—no matter the cost.
Back in the Hearth Temple of Kael'Thar, the Flame Circle gathered once more.
The chamber was suffused with the glow of crimson flames swirling in iron sconces, casting long shadows on the worn stone walls. Around the circular table sat the Flame Circle, their eyes sharp and unforgiving as they turned toward Maeril, the flamelord who alone had voiced hesitation about Kaelien's fate.
Maeril rose slowly, his voice calm but measured, each word weighed with deliberate care.
"The Flame Circle's judgment is clear: Kaelien's mercy is a betrayal of our cause. And yet," he paused, glancing at each of the furious faces around him, "we must also consider what this war demands of us—not only strength but strategy."
A flicker of impatience sparked in Eldrin's eyes, but Maeril pressed on.
"Kaelien is no ordinary soldier. His skill with flame rivals that of many embers among us. To execute him hastily risks more than we might gain. It risks sending a message of fear and instability to our forces. A man who chose survival over blind obedience is one who might still be swayed… or broken."
The circle exchanged uneasy glances. Maeril's words danced on a knife's edge — seeming to support the punishment, yet urging caution.
He took a breath and lowered his voice slightly.
"If we act too swiftly, we give our enemies the advantage of knowing we are fractured. Let us instead delay, observe. Kaelien must understand the weight of his choice, but also feel the walls closing in. He will find no peace, no refuge. He will come back to kael'thar and surrender"
He locked eyes with the oldest flamelord, Karrath, who nodded slightly in grudging assent.
Maeril's final words were quiet, almost a whisper, meant only for those closest.
"And if he doesn't… then we will be ready to strike with full force."
Behind the closed doors of Maeril's private chambers, his expression darkened as he exhaled deeply. The burden of duplicity weighed heavily, but he knew Kaelien's survival was a necessity none could yet understand.
Time is a weapon, too, he thought. And I will wield it silently, until the right moment.