The fires from the Ruined Circle still burned in Jonas's mind.
Even as they reached the borders of Dawnmere Hollow, even as the cold winds swept through the mountain veins like forgotten breaths, he could still hear the Hollowborn scream. Could still feel the heat of his own howl splitting the night open like a prophecy delivered too soon.
But what haunted him most wasn't the blood.
It was the silence that came after.
The silence that whispered, You survived. But not all of you did.
Dawnmere Hollow had once been a proud outpost of the old Pact era—a jagged fortress carved into cliffside rock, its foundations rooted in deepmoon stone. Centuries ago, it housed warriors sworn to defend the eastern rim of Kaladorn from the early rise of the Hollow plague.
Now?
It was hollow in more ways than name.
Dust lay thick on collapsed rooftops. Vines choked the old banners, their emblems faded. Wolves and humans had once stood shoulder to shoulder here. Now only memories clung to the walls—and not all of them friendly.
Jonas moved through the ruin in silence.
Behind him, Elena coordinated the surviving Ashfang scouts, using rune markers to seal the perimeter. Elric busied himself cleaning weapons, but even he seemed quieter than usual.
No jokes. No smirks.
Just steel and shadows.
Gharan limped through the main hall, observing every crack in the stone like they were open wounds. "This place remembers war," he muttered.
Jonas nodded. "So do we."
By nightfall, a temporary camp was set.
Jonas stood near one of the broken balconies, gazing across the valley below. Lanterns flickered across the ruins. Wolves patrolled in silence. The air was colder here. Sharper.
And yet… the second moon still hung above them, unblinking.
He touched the mark over his chest. It was no longer burning—but it pulsed, like a heart that didn't belong to him.
He whispered to the night, "What are you turning me into?"
> "Something you were always meant to be," said a voice behind him.
Jonas turned to see Elias—one of the younger Ashfang, barely past twenty winters, with a quiet strength in his step. He held a piece of parchment in his hand.
"What's that?" Jonas asked.
"Something you need to see."
Inside the old war chamber, Elias unrolled the parchment on a stone table. It was a map—but not of Kaladorn.
Not exactly.
This was a pre-sundering map, showing Kaladorn as part of a wider network of kingdoms, forgotten by modern scholars.
"The Pact wasn't just one alliance," Elias explained. "It was a network—twelve bloodlines, twelve thrones. Kaladorn was the heart, but not the only flame."
Jonas leaned over the map.
Three kingdoms were circled in red ink.
Varenthia. Oshael. Aegir's End.
"These still exist?"
"In fragments," Elias said. "Varenthia is a wasteland now, overrun with Silent Ones. Oshael is hidden behind fog and storms. Aegir's End… we don't know."
"But why show me this now?"
Elias's face turned grim.
"Because we're not the only ones hearing the Gate hum. Something ancient is waking across the continent. We need allies. Old ones."
Jonas touched the map, his finger landing on Oshael.
"What makes this place special?"
"It was once the kingdom of the Whisperfangs," Elias said. "The same bloodline your blade came from."
Later that night, as wind howled through the Hollow's old corridors, Jonas lay awake inside a broken stone chamber once used for binding oaths.
He couldn't sleep.
Not with the mark glowing faintly.
Not with the silence pressing against his chest like an invisible weight.
And not with the memories.
Flashes of the battle.
The scent of burned ashfang fur.
The look on the young scout's face before the Hollowborn tore him apart.
Jonas clenched his fists. I wasn't fast enough.
> "You can't carry them all," Elena said quietly, entering the room. "But I know you'll try anyway."
She sat beside him, brushing a thin layer of frost off the stone ledge.
"This isn't what I wanted," Jonas whispered.
"It never is."
"They see me as something holy. Or doomed. I don't feel like either."
Elena leaned back. "You're not either. You're just the one who lived long enough to be chosen."
"Some gift."
"Sometimes gifts don't come wrapped. Sometimes they come screaming."
Jonas almost smiled.
Almost.
At dawn, a scouting party arrived—bloodied and breathless.
Three Ashfang. Two dead. One dying.
The survivor dropped to his knees, eyes wide with terror.
"They're coming," he gasped. "Not Hollowborn. Worse."
"What do you mean worse?" Elric asked.
The scout turned to Jonas.
"They're Fleshbound. Men who gave up their names for power."
Elias inhaled sharply. "I thought they were a myth."
"No," Gharan growled. "They're the Hollow King's priests."
Elric slammed a fist into the wall. "How far?"
The scout's voice trembled. "Two days. Maybe less."
Council was called immediately.
The central chamber, barely intact, filled with Ashfang leaders, warriors, and Jonas's closest allies.
Gharan outlined the threat.
Elena proposed a forward escape to the caves of Harrowmere.
Elric pushed for a head-on confrontation.
Jonas listened.
He watched them argue.
Then he stood.
All eyes turned to him.
"If we run now, they'll only follow. If we fight here, they'll bleed us dry. We can't win this battle."
Murmurs.
Tension.
"But we can win a message," Jonas continued. "We divide. Half go east—toward Oshael. The rest go north with me. We'll draw them away."
Gharan frowned. "You want to split the pack?"
"I want to save it."
He looked to Elena.
"You said the Whisperfangs still have flame in them. Let's go light it."
That night, as preparations were made for the split, Jonas returned to the balcony overlooking the ravine.
The second moon was still there.
Closer.
Hungrier.
He raised his blade to it—not in worship, but in warning.
"I see you now."
And the mark over his heart burned in reply.
Far, far beneath them… Something laughed in the dark.
Not with joy.
With recognition.
> The war had just begun.