The night wrapped Skarnhold in a suffocating mist.
Beyond the thick stone walls, a storm brooded, unseen but felt, like a beast pacing just beyond the edges of a hunter's fire. The lanterns guttered low in their sconces, casting long and trembling shadows that seemed to breathe with a life of their own.
Inside a modest chamber tucked deep in the Inner Keep, Theo Leveros snored like a dying bear.
Kaleon stood at the foot of his friend's bed, arms folded, a crooked smile tugging at his lips despite himself. Theo was sprawled out across the mattress with reckless abandon, boots still on, one arm hanging off the edge like a fallen banner.
"You'll wake the dead before I even get past the courtyard," Kaleon muttered under his breath.
The fire in the hearth had dwindled to embers, casting a low, restless glow across the stone floor. Beyond the small slit-window, the night loomed—silent and waiting.
Kaleon moved carefully, gathering his cloak and fastening it around his shoulders. He tucked the shard, the broken fragment from the monolith, deeper beneath his tunic where it burned with a quiet insistence against his chest.
Every instinct in him screamed to move quickly.
But he spared a last glance at Theo, feeling a pang of guilt.
"If you had any sense," he whispered, "you'd stay asleep."
But deep down, he knew better.
Theo was reckless, stubborn—and fiercely loyal. If he had even the faintest idea where Kaleon was headed, he would follow without hesitation, for better or worse.
With a sigh, Kaleon slipped through the door, boots whispering against worn stone.
The corridors stretched out before him, cold and endless.
He moved like a shadow through the sleeping keep.
Past tapestries that whispered in the draft. Past suits of armor that stood like forgotten sentinels. Past old scars on the walls where battle had once clawed Skarnhold raw.
The shard pulsed harder the deeper he went, its heat sinking into his bones. It wasn't just a guide now—it was a call. A command.
Down the long sloping staircases he went, past the Hall of Arms, its high banners sagging with dust, past the Weeping Stair where rainwater bled through old cracks and darkened the stones like tears.
The way downward twisted and narrowed, the stone turning black with age and soot.
Kaleon's heartbeat thrummed in his ears, steady and grim.
Until—
A faint scuff behind him.
He froze, hand darting to the dagger sheathed at his belt.
"Seven bloody hells," came a hiss from the dark.
From the shadows stumbled Theo, panting, hair tousled, boots scuffed with dust.
"Seriously," Theo wheezed, planting his hands on his knees, "you could try moving slower if you didn't want to be followed."
Kaleon stared at him, torn between fury and relief.
"You—how—" he spluttered.
Theo flashed a crooked grin, still trying to catch his breath. "You think I'd let you run off to get yourself killed without supervision?"
"You were snoring like a drunk horse!" Kaleon hissed.
Theo straightened, brushing dust from his tunic with exaggerated dignity. "A clever ruse."
Kaleon glared at him, but the heat drained quickly.
He should've known better.
Where he went, Theo would follow.
"Fine," he muttered, turning back toward the path ahead. "Stay close. And touch nothing."
Theo saluted with two fingers and fell into step beside him.
Together, they plunged deeper into the veins of Skarnhold.
He moved like a shadow through the sleeping keep.
Past tapestries that whispered in the draft. Past suits of armor that stood like forgotten sentinels. Past old scars on the walls where battle had once clawed Skarnhold raw.
The shard pulsed harder the deeper he went, its heat sinking into his bones. It wasn't just a guide now—it was a call. A command.
Down the long sloping staircases he went, past the Hall of Arms, its high banners sagging with dust, past the Weeping Stair where rainwater bled through old cracks and darkened the stones like tears.
The way downward twisted and narrowed, the stone turning black with age and soot.
Kaleon's heartbeat thrummed in his ears, steady and grim.
Until—
A faint scuff behind him.
He froze, hand darting to the dagger sheathed at his belt.
"Seven bloody hells," came a hiss from the dark.
From the shadows stumbled Theo, panting, hair tousled, boots scuffed with dust.
"Seriously," Theo wheezed, planting his hands on his knees, "you could try moving slower if you didn't want to be followed."
Kaleon stared at him, torn between fury and relief.
"You—how—" he spluttered.
Theo flashed a crooked grin, still trying to catch his breath. "You think I'd let you run off to get yourself killed without supervision?"
"You were snoring like a drunk horse!" Kaleon hissed.
Theo straightened, brushing dust from his tunic with exaggerated dignity. "A clever ruse."
Kaleon glared at him, but the heat drained quickly.
He should've known better.
Where he went, Theo would follow.
"Fine," he muttered, turning back toward the path ahead. "Stay close. And touch nothing."
Theo saluted with two fingers and fell into step beside him.
Together, they plunged deeper into the veins of Skarnhold.
The air grew heavier as they descended.
The walls were closer here, carved with ancient runes, half-erased by time and soot.
Theo kept glancing sideways at the carvings. "Cheery place, this," he muttered. "Looks like a tomb."
"It is," Kaleon said, his voice low. "For things older than us."
Theo grimaced. "Lovely."
At last, the path ended at a towering door.
Black iron, wrapped in chains that had long since rusted into nothingness.
Dragons were carved into its surface, coiling and writhing, their eyes blind, their claws tearing at each other.
The shard pulsed like a second heartbeat against Kaleon's chest.
He reached out, trembling slightly.
The iron was freezing cold beneath his palm.
A moment of stillness.
Then—
With a sound like mountains grinding together, the door groaned open, breathing out a gust of stale, burning air.
Kaleon and Theo exchanged a glance—equal parts dread and awe.
Then they stepped through.
The Chamber of the Flameheart swallowed them whole.
It was vast—larger than any hall in Skarnhold above, carved directly into the mountain's living bones.
Pillars in the shape of dragons soared into darkness. The ceiling was lost in shadow. The walls were blackened, scorched by fire older than memory.
At the chamber's heart burned a brazier, immense and unnatural. The flames did not burn red or gold—but shifted and twisted through colors that defied names: molten blue, poisonous green, fierce white.
The light warped the air itself.
Kaleon staggered a step.
Theo whistled low under his breath, awe etching his voice thin. "By all the gods..."
But Kaleon barely heard him.
The shard burned brighter, as if it were alive.
Drawing him forward.
He could feel the old power sleeping beneath the stones, thrumming in time with his blood.
Whispers stirred the air.
First faint. Then louder.
Voices in a language too ancient for words, yet somehow understood in the marrow.
"The flame remembers..."
"The ash endures..."
"Vey'naraak..."
Theo clutched his head, grimacing in pain.
"Kaleon!" he rasped. "Something's—"
But the brazier roared.
The world cracked apart.
Beside him, Theo was trapped too.
In his own nightmare.
He saw armies clashing on burning fields, brothers cutting down brothers, flags of Skarn and Ardwyn and Drakmire trampled into the mud.
Above them all towered a black spire, and atop it, a woman cloaked in white flame beckoned him.
"You must choose," she whispered. "Loyalty—or truth."
Theo fell to his knees, gasping, blood trickling from his nose.
"Kaleon—" he croaked.
"Kaleon—!"
The journey back was slower.
Every step felt heavier, the weight of what they'd seen pressing down on them.
They emerged into the upper halls just as the first light of dawn split the eastern peaks.
But the keep did not feel the same.
Something had shifted beneath the stone.
Something had awoken.
And it was watching.
Later that night, long after Theo had collapsed into uneasy sleep again, Kaleon found himself drawn to the East Tower.
The wind howled around him, tugging at his cloak, but he barely felt it.
Above, the stars spun in their ancient, indifferent courses.
The shard was cool now against his chest, but the memory of fire still burned in his veins.
He gripped the stone railing of the balcony until his knuckles whitened.
And he whispered a name—one etched into him now, inseparable from his own blood.
"Vaelaria."
Far across Drakenshard, beyond the black rivers and broken mountains, a storm coiled atop a lonely peak.
Something stirred within that storm.
And it remembered.