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Clash of Dooms
By [CEO]
Chapter Four: The Warden of Ashes
In the heart of the Scarred Lands, where fire still festered beneath the earth and the sky hung low with red smoke, the fortress of Emberfall stood forgotten by most. Its black spires clawed at the sky like broken teeth, and its gates—sealed by molten iron—had not opened in two centuries.
But the silence was breaking.
A tremor rolled through the earth, faint but unmistakable. The ancient runes along the obsidian walls flickered to life, glowing ember-red. Deep within the citadel's core, something stirred—slowly, heavily, like a mountain waking from slumber.
The Warden of Ashes had been summoned.
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Her name was Syrren Val'Tael.
Once, she had been the Flamekeeper of the Celestial Order—a guardian of light. But light had failed her during the Sundering, and in the end, she had turned to fire. Fire that burned cities. Fire that sealed Valmorra. Fire that scorched her soul.
She had exiled herself to Emberfall after the war, swearing never to interfere again. Not unless the world dared to awaken what she helped bury.
And now, it had.
Syrren stood alone in a chamber of fireglass, dressed in soot-dark armor laced with ashsteel, her silver-white hair tied back with braided copper wire. Her eyes glowed faintly like coals—evidence of the pact she made so long ago. As the rune circle completed its flare, she turned toward the awakening forge.
"You took your time," she said to the shadows.
A robed figure emerged from behind the columns. Elindra Moir.
"I wouldn't have come if it wasn't necessary," Elindra said.
"No," Syrren replied, her voice deep and raspy. "You came because you're afraid."
"The sigil has been touched," Elindra said. "Valmorra stirs. And the boy—Kaelen—he bears the bloodline."
Syrren's expression didn't change. But the flames behind her hissed louder.
"I warned the Circle," she said. "I warned them what would happen if the seals were ever tampered with."
"You warned them," Elindra replied, stepping closer, "but you also forged the seal, Syrren. You know its language. Its locks. If Valmorra returns, no army will stop him."
Syrren turned, staring out through the molten-glass window overlooking a chasm of fire.
"I am not the woman I was," she said. "But if war is coming… I will be fire again."
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Far beneath Durnholde, Kaelen crouched beside a broken pillar, his heart thundering in his chest. The monolith had shattered completely now, revealing a staircase descending into what could only be described as a wound in the earth—pulsing with dark light, veins of corrupted stone crawling outward.
From below came a rhythmic sound.
Footsteps.
Something was climbing up.
The sigil in his bag flared again, burning against his side. Kaelen gritted his teeth. He had no choice but to descend.
Step by step, sword drawn, he entered the dark—down toward whatever Valmorra had left behind.
Or whatever was waiting in his place.
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In the shattered ruins of Thar'Vael, the exiled war clans marched.
Torches filled the canyons with firelight. Banner after banner rose above the crags—each one bearing a different symbol of ancient allegiance. The air buzzed with the low hum of war chants.
At the head rode the scarred figure who had ridden through the blizzard.
Their name was Kaelor.
And they had sworn vengeance on the bloodline of Vire.
As Kaelor raised their hand, the army halted. "The Seals are broken," Kaelor said, voice echoing across the cliffs. "The Doomcaller will rise again. But we will rise first. We will not bow. We will not fear. We will conquer the fire."
Cheers erupted like thunder.
And the ground itself trembled beneath them.
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To be continued in Chapter Five: Fire Again
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