CHAPTER 1538: STORY 1538: EMBER-WROUGHT

The ash-born soldiers advanced with terrifying calm, their molten steps hissing against the scorched stone. Unlike the skittering spawn, these moved with purpose, their posture almost regal, like champions forged in fire to mock the shape of men.

One lifted its clawed hand and pointed—not at Kael, not at Elara, but at the Ashborn Child. Its ember eyes brightened, and the chains across the Gate pulsed in response, their glow thundering in rhythm with the child’s trembling light.

A low murmur rippled through the survivors, their rage dissolving into terror. Blades that had been raised against each other faltered, their tips sinking toward the ash as they realized they had been fighting the wrong war.

The scarred woman was the first to recover. She spun her spear in her grip, her jaw set. “They’re his heralds,” she spat. “He sends them to claim the key.”

Her followers rallied to her cry, but their fear was plain. Against beasts, they had fought with desperation; against these, something in their marrow screamed futility.

Kael stepped forward, planting his jagged blade into the ash. His voice was rough, but it carried. “Stand together, or you’ve already handed him victory.”

Elara pressed her forehead to the child’s, her flame flaring faintly around them both. The child whimpered, ember-glow stuttering, its voice a fragile whisper: “Father... calling...”

The scarred woman snapped her glare toward Elara. “Then end its voice before it answers!”

“No,” Kael roared, ripping his blade free. His eyes burned with a fire to match the Gate. “We hold. We hold, or we break.”

The ember-wrought soldiers moved as one. Their claws struck with precision, carving through shields as though they were parchment. Survivors screamed, their cries rising against the grinding roar of combat. Steel clanged, flames snapped, blood sprayed into the dust.

Kael met one head-on, his jagged blade locking against molten claws. Heat seared his hands through the hilt, but he shoved forward, driving his blade deep into the thing’s chest. It split with a sound like cracking stone, collapsing into a pile of cooling slag—but even as it fell, another advanced to take its place.

The scarred woman fought like a storm, her spear weaving arcs of death, striking joints, piercing ember cores. Yet for every one she felled, more pressed closer, their ember eyes fixed not on her, not on Kael, but always on the child.

Elara staggered back, clutching the child as its glow flickered wildly. Each pulse resonated with the Gate, the chains tightening, rattling, groaning louder as though rejoicing.

Kael cut down another soldier, panting, blood dripping from both hands and blade. His eyes darted to the scarred woman, then to Elara, and the truth rose like bile in his throat:

They could not win both wars. If they turned on each other again, the ember-wrought would claim the child. If they protected the child, the Gate itself would answer.

And if they failed either, the Unborn would not wait much longer.

The Gate trembled. The chains blazed.

And for the first time, a voice rumbled from within—vast, ancient, and terrible.

“My children...”