CHAPTER 1535: STORY 1535: ASH AND OATHS

The battlefield writhed in fire and shadow. The smaller spawn poured from the fissures in waves, their ember-lit eyes snapping toward anything that moved. Each strike of their claws sent sparks hissing into the ash.

Kael carved through them with furious strokes, his jagged blade biting into molten flesh. Each kill cost him—arms heavy, lungs burning—but still he fought, a wall between Elara and the horrors.

Behind him, Elara staggered, clutching the Ashborn Child close while her fire snapped outward in sharp bursts. Each flare burned one creature to slag, but each left her dimmer, weaker, like a candle drowning in its own wax.

The scarred woman’s people fought with wild desperation, shields splintering under the spawn’s claws. Their leader’s spear darted and struck with ruthless precision, but her eyes never left Kael. Even amid the battle, the argument had not ended.

“Your child calls them!” she roared, driving her spear into a spawn’s throat. “Every cry brings more of them! How many must die before you see it?”

Kael spat blood, cleaving through another. “Without it, we’d already be dead!”

The scarred woman’s snarl twisted into something darker. “Then maybe dying sooner would have spared us this doom.”

The words cut deeper than the spawn’s claws. Kael felt the doubt gnaw, the truth of it coiling like a serpent in his chest. The child was tied to the Gate. Its light stirred the chains, and the chains woke what lay beyond.

And yet—when Kael turned, he saw the fragile ember-glow flickering in the child’s chest, saw Elara’s desperate hands shielding it from the world, and he could not raise his blade against it.

A sudden crash split the chaos. One of the fissures burst wider, vomiting flame and molten stone. From it clawed a larger spawn, its body crowned with a mane of living fire. It shrieked, the sound like tearing steel, and hurled itself into the survivors’ line. Shields shattered; men screamed.

Kael lunged, but he was too far.

Then the child wailed.

Its ember-light erupted, rippling across the battlefield in a wave. The lesser spawn shrieked and scattered, their forms unraveling in the brilliance. Even the great fire-mane beast staggered, its molten skin cracking under the glare.

But the cost was written in the child’s body. Its glow guttered, dimming until only the faintest spark clung to life. Elara collapsed with it, her cries ragged, raw. “No more... it cannot take more...”

Silence fell as the last of the spawn withered. Survivors stood in stunned awe, blades dripping ember ichor.

The scarred woman leaned on her spear, chest heaving. Her voice was iron, unbending. “One strike left, warrior. And you wasted it.”

Kael stared at the dying ember in Elara’s arms, torn between fury and despair. The Gate loomed behind him, its chains glowing hotter, brighter, each pulse heavier than the last.

And in the tremor of the earth, Kael heard it clear:

The Unborn was listening.