The wind howled across the northern plains, biting and merciless. It carried whispers through ancient stone canyons—whispers that even the hardened tribes refused to chase. Somewhere beneath the ice and silence, something stirred.
Far from the Threadborn Temple, in a ruined fortress half-buried by snow, a figure stood atop a frozen watchtower. Her armor was black as obsidian, trimmed in silver. A long scar cut across her left cheek, and her eyes glowed faint crimson.
She watched the horizon.
"He's awakened," she murmured.
A soldier knelt behind her. "The Flamebound?"
She nodded once. "The Threadborn have claimed him. We must move before the Wardens reach him."
---
The Flamebound's Echo
Back at the temple, Eli rested in silence.
His body ached with every breath, but it was the visions that truly haunted him—flashes of battles he never fought, voices he couldn't name, pain that didn't belong to him.
Mira watched over him, arms folded. "They say you're dangerous now."
"Maybe I am."
"Good. We'll need dangerous if we're going to survive what's coming."
Jericho entered with a scowl. "You've got a fan club outside. The monks want to teach you how not to explode. I think that's a solid step one."
Eli forced a laugh. "I'm listening."
---
Whispers in the Thread
As training began, Cael stayed behind in the temple's lower archives. He poured over old scrolls and glowing diagrams, tracing symbols that hadn't been spoken aloud in centuries.
"Flamebound," he muttered, "third ring... it wasn't supposed to exist."
A monk approached quietly. "You seek answers."
"I seek the truth."
"You won't find it in ink and crystal alone. Some truths were buried to protect the world."
Cael turned. "Or to control it."
The monk did not argue. "The northern tribes will not ignore the Flamebound's return. Nor will the Wardens. You've lit a fire in a world built of kindling."
---
A New Enemy Rises
Back in the frozen north, the woman in black armor—General Velra of the Dread Circle—gathered her warband. Raiders, mercenaries, and former Warden-hunters kneeled in a crescent before her.
"The Flamebound is reborn," she said. "He carries the third ring—proof of the ancient bloodline. If the Wardens claim him, they will rise again. If the Threadborn teach him, the world will fracture."
She drew a silver blade etched with runes.
"We will claim him. Or we will end him."
Behind her, a beast stirred in chains—massive, monstrous, and barely contained by the magic holding it down.
War had begun.