Chapter 108: Galen's Thorn
The marble sanctum of Ironhold Citadel was colder than the sharpest winter dawn. Its walls, carved from pure white stone veined with streaks of onyx, reflected the pale flicker of torchlight in sharp shards. The vast chamber stretched like the belly of a great beast, echoing faintly with the footfalls of men and the murmurs of secrets.
At its center stood the ancient war-table, an expanse of dark wood and iron inlaid with the carved map of the realm. Mountains, rivers, and borders were etched in meticulous detail, worn smooth by the countless strategems plotted upon it. It was a relic of old wars and broken kings—its edges chipped, its surface marred by the scars of forgotten battles.
Galen stood over it, a shadow among shadows, fingers spread wide across the carved lands like a spider poised over a caught fly. His eyes, sharp and glinting, scanned the faded terrain as if he could command the pieces to move with his will alone.
His captains waited behind him, silent and tense, their breaths shallow and uncertain. They had come to expect nothing but finality in this chamber, but now, a flicker of fear clung to the air, as palpable as the chill of the stone beneath their feet.
The reports had arrived late—two days behind schedule. When they did come, they were muddy and inconsistent, the handwriting trembling with unease. Scouts who had ventured into the Mirelands spoke of a man—no, a force—emerging from the murky depths, bearing the relics of the Flame. His soldiers rallied beneath him with a fervor Galen had not witnessed since the fall of the Old Pact.
They spoke of Caedren not merely as a prince or a general.
But as an heir.
Heir to an idea Galen had tried, for years, to erase.
"The Hollow yielded?" Galen muttered, voice low and rough as gravel. His fingers pressed harder against the carved wood, nails digging into the surface. "After all this time?"
One of his captains stepped forward, his voice cautious but steady. "Willingly, my lord. The Hollow gave Caedren something—some text, an emblem, perhaps. Morale surged overnight. Half our spies in the Mirelands disappeared without a trace."
Galen's knuckles whitened. "Ivan's ghost. Always Ivan."
He turned sharply, strides long and deliberate as he moved toward the massive arched window that overlooked the prison garden. Below, prisoners of war were strung up on cruel thorns, twisted iron spikes piercing flesh and bone. Their bodies hung in silent testament, left to rot and be eaten by flies.
The buzzing was constant.
A relentless hum of decay.
But Galen's nose had grown used to the stench. It no longer turned his stomach—it became familiar. His world.
"You think I fear the Flame," he whispered, his breath fogging the glass with cold menace.
"But Ivan's flame failed."
Kael didn't destroy the world, Galen thought bitterly. No. He broke it open.
Let the wounds fester. Let the rot seep through.
"Ivan was a fool to believe fire could cleanse," Galen murmured darkly.
He faced his captains again, eyes blazing with cruel clarity.
"Bring me the Emberborn."
The room froze.
One of the younger captains stammered, "You said—"
"I said if Caedren strayed beyond history," Galen cut him off, voice iron-hard, "I would answer with myth."
His lips curled into a grim smile. "Summon the Emberborn. Let us see if his fire can outburn mine."
Far to the south, in the sunken forges of Draeth, the Emberborn awoke.
Not quite man.
Not quite machine.
A relic forged from black metal fallen from the skies.
Bound by oath to a name long forgotten.
Once a servant to Ivan.
Then a betrayer.
Then consigned to the firepits of Draeth.
Now, the Emberborn rose again.
Metal plates ground softly, joints cracking and loosening after centuries of silence.
Its hollow eyes flickered with the cold light of stars long dead.
And deep in its core, something ancient stirred.
It smelled Caedren's scent on the wind.
Remembered.
Meanwhile, at the main camp near the Shattered Border, the air was thick with unease.
Rumors churned like storm clouds—whispers of Galen's new weapon.
Something terrible.
Something not of flesh.
Lysa approached Caedren in his command tent, her face pale but resolute.
"They say he's awakened something ancient," she said quietly, voice taut.
"Something not of flesh."
Caedren looked up from Ivan's journal, eyes steady but shadowed with a weariness that ran deeper than wounds.
"Let him," he said, voice calm but fierce.
"I've seen ghosts walk."
"I've spoken with the shamed."
"What more can he throw at us?"
But Lysa's expression remained grave.
Her eyes held a fire different from battle's.
"Caedren," she said, voice low but firm, "you're not just fighting a man now."
"You're fighting a god's mistake."
Caedren closed the worn journal slowly, the ancient pages whispering of history's wounds.
"Then let the gods watch their mistake bleed."
The command tent was quiet for a moment.
The weight of those words hung between them like a challenge.
Outside, soldiers sharpened blades and prepared for the coming storm.
Caedren's words spread like wildfire through the ranks.
Hope.
Defiance.
The promise of a reckoning.
Back in Ironhold, Galen's mind churned like molten iron.
He had lived through the fall of kings and the rise of legends.
He had burned bridges and watched empires crumble.
Yet now, as the Emberborn stirred from its slumber, a new chapter was being written.
One where myth and history collided.
Where fire would decide the fate of the world once more.
"The Emberborn will burn brighter than any flame."
Outside the walls of the camp, night deepened.
Stars blinked cold and distant.
A fire smoldered.
The bridge had caught flame.
The game was changing.
And no one could say who would stand when the ashes settled.