Far to the north, in the shadow of the Iron Keep, a storm gathered over the heart of Mordain’s empire. The keep itself was a fortress of obsidian and steel, its spires piercing the sky like the claws of a beast. Fires burned in the forges below, churning out weapons for an army that had brought the entire kingdom to its knees.

  And at its center, seated on a throne carved from black stone, was Regent Mordain.

  The chamber was vast and cold, its walls adorned with banners bearing the sigil of the black wolf. Mordain sat motionless, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he listened to the captain kneeling before him. The man was battered and bloodied, his armor scorched and dented from the failed ambush in the Amber Veil.

  “They scattered us, my lord,” the captain said, his voice trembling. “The rebels have grown bolder, and the villagers are rallying to their cause. The… the prince was there. He led the charge himself.”

  Mordain’s lips curved into a faint smile, though his eyes remained cold and unreadable. He leaned forward slightly, the firelight casting sharp shadows across his angular features. His black hair was streaked with gray, and his face was lined with the weight of decades spent in power.

  “The prince,” Mordain repeated, his voice smooth and dangerous. “How remarkable. I had thought him dead by now.”

  The captain swallowed hard. “He… he’s no ordinary fighter, my lord. He wields something—dark and powerful. He killed one of the Handlers.”

  Mordain’s smile vanished, his expression hardening. “A Handler, you say?”

  “Yes, my lord,” the captain said, his voice barely above a whisper. “He used a blade—black as night, and… unnatural. The men are saying it’s magic.”

  The word hung in the air like a curse. Mordain’s eyes narrowed, his fingers tightening against the arms of his throne.

  “So,” he said softly, “the bloodline awakens.”

  The captain flinched as Mordain rose to his feet. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his presence commanding even in silence. The black armor he wore seemed to drink in the light, its edges etched with runes that pulsed faintly in the shadows.

  Mordain descended the steps of the throne, his boots echoing against the stone floor. He stopped in front of the captain, who bowed his head so low it nearly touched the ground.

  “Do you know why I despise failure, captain?” Mordain asked, his voice quiet but sharp as a blade.

  The man shook his head, trembling.

  “Because failure is weakness,” Mordain continued. “And weakness spreads like a disease. First, it infects the mind. Then, it poisons the body. And finally, it destroys the soul.”

  He drew a dagger from his belt, the blade gleaming with a faint, crimson glow. The captain barely had time to cry out before Mordain drove the blade into his chest.

  The man collapsed to the floor, his blood pooling around him as Mordain turned to face the room.

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  “Let this be a lesson,” Mordain said, his voice echoing through the chamber. “The rebellion is a sickness, and we will crush it—root and stem.”

  He gestured to one of the figures standing in the shadows. “Send word to the Warden of Blackspire. I want the full might of the Iron Legion mobilized. And send for the Witch of Ebonreach. If the prince wields magic, we will answer in kind.”

  A tall, hooded figure stepped forward, their voice low and cold. “As you command, my lord.”

  Mordain returned to his throne, his gaze distant.

  “Prince Alric,” he murmured. “You’ve survived longer than I expected. But you’ve only delayed the inevitable. The bloodline that once ruled Caeroth will die, just as it should have long ago.”

  Back in the Amber Veil, the rebels had settled into a temporary camp in the mountains. The villagers who had fled Harrowfield were still shaken but alive, and the rebels worked tirelessly to fortify their position.

  Alric stood near the edge of the camp, watching as Iridia and the others coordinated patrols and defenses. The weight of his responsibilities felt heavier than ever, but the determination in the rebels’ eyes gave him strength.

  Kaelion appeared beside him, his spectral form flickering faintly in the dim light. “They’re looking to you now,” he said. “You’ve given them hope. That’s no small thing.”

  “But hope isn’t enough,” Alric said quietly. “We’re outnumbered, outmatched. And Mordain won’t stop until we’re crushed.”

  Kaelion’s golden eyes narrowed. “Then you make him stop. You’ve already proven you can outthink him. Keep pushing. Keep striking where he’s weak. And if you feel yourself faltering, lean on us.”

  Alric glanced at the obsidian dagger at his side, the memories of its power and its cost still fresh in his mind. “Every time I use your power, it takes a piece of me. How much longer before there’s nothing left?”

  Kaelion’s expression softened, but he didn’t look away. “That depends on you, boy. The bloodline chose you because you’re stronger than most. But strength doesn’t mean invincibility. You need to decide what you’re willing to sacrifice—and what you’re not.”

  Alric stared out at the horizon, his jaw tight. “I’ll do whatever it takes to end Mordain’s reign. If that means losing a piece of myself, so be it.”

  Kaelion’s gaze was steady. “Be careful, Alric. That’s exactly what Maltheron is waiting for.”

  That evening, Alric gathered the rebel leaders around a fire, the flames casting long shadows across their tired faces. Iridia stood beside him, her presence steady as a rock, while Jorik and the others watched him with cautious curiosity.

  “We can’t stay here,” Alric began, his voice firm. “Mordain knows where we are. If we wait for him to strike, we’ll be wiped out. We need to take the fight to him.”

  Jorik frowned. “And how do you propose we do that? March straight into the Iron Keep?”

  “Not yet,” Alric said. “But there’s a stronghold to the east—Blackspire. It’s one of Mordain’s key supply hubs, and it’s where his forces gather before launching campaigns. If we take it, we’ll not only disrupt his operations but also send a message to the rest of the kingdom.”

  The leaders exchanged uneasy glances.

  “That’s a big gamble,” Iridia said. “Blackspire is heavily fortified. Taking it would require more than just numbers—it would require strategy, coordination.”

  Alric nodded. “That’s why we’ll divide his attention. We’ll launch smaller raids on nearby outposts, forcing him to split his forces. Then, when Blackspire is vulnerable, we strike.”

  Jorik scratched his beard, his expression skeptical. “And if it fails?”

  Alric met his gaze, his voice steady. “If it fails, we’ll fight until we can’t. But I’d rather die fighting for a chance at freedom than waiting for Mordain to crush us.”

  The room fell silent, the weight of his words hanging in the air.

  Finally, Iridia stepped forward, her sharp eyes locking on his. “You’ve got fire, prince. Let’s see if it’s enough to burn down Mordain’s empire.”

  As the rebels began their preparations for the campaign against Blackspire, Alric felt the fire of rebellion burning brighter than ever. But in the shadows of his mind, the Echoes stirred, their whispers growing louder with each passing day.

  And far to the north, in the Iron Keep, Mordain smiled as the storm clouds gathered.

  The rebellion was rising. But so was the shadow that sought to consume it.