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Mastering his demon side was like trying to leash a storm. Every session left Dexter bruised, breathless, and on the verge of losing himself to the rage clawing inside. But he pushed through—because the world still stood on the edge, and the demons hadn't attacked yet. They were waiting for the Convergence.
Time was his only ally. And he used it to sharpen his edge.
So when Tulopia told him about the sword of KRONUX, once used to subdue Primal himself, Dexter didn't hesitate. The weapon lay hidden in the ruins of Kal'Sharis—a city long dead, once ruled by Firebinders, mages who'd bent flame into weapon and shield. Now, only scorched stone and haunted silence remained.
They arrived at dusk.
The obsidian steps of Kal'Sharis cracked beneath their boots. Dust hung in the air, thick as grief, clinging to broken arches and fallen statues like ash after a pyre. Overhead, the sky simmered—burnt-orange clouds casting jagged shadows across the blackened ruins. The scent of old fire lingered.
Tulopia paused, hand on the hilt of her dagger. "Something's watching."
She wasn't wrong.
From the far end of the plaza came a rumble—low, guttural. Then, a voice that dragged across the stones like chains.
"Who dares enter the Valley of Death?"
The creature stepped into view—eight feet tall, armor fused with scorched bone, a mane of flickering embers trailing down its back. Its eyes were pits of molten gold.
Dexter stepped forward, heart pounding. "We've come for the sword of KRONUX. We need it to stop Primal—and the Seven."
The creature snarled. "Then pay the price. Defeat me, and it's yours. Or die."
There was no room for negotiation.
Dexter's fingers tightened around his own sword. The Ring on his finger pulsed—once. Warm. A quiet reminder that the fire beneath this city still lived.
Tulopia's voice was calm but firm. "Eyes open. This place reeks of old magic."
Beside them, Riven—scarred and silent—nodded. "Not just dead. Cursed."
Dexter inhaled deeply. Then let the demon loose.
It was faster now. Controlled. The transformation rolled over him like molten metal—searing, but not consuming. Horns cracked through his skin, eyes burned bright, and his voice dropped an octave.
Tulopia stepped back, whispering an incantation under her breath, her rune-tattoos glowing faintly. "I can't help you in this fight, Dexter. It has to be you. Don't die."
Then the beast lunged.
What followed was less a duel and more a collision of ancient fury and raw will. Flame clashed with claw. Steel bit into scorched flesh. The creature fought like it had nothing left to lose. But Dexter—Dexter fought like someone who couldn't afford to lose.
In the end, it was a brutal slash across the throat that dropped the monster.
Panting, drenched in blood, Dexter stood over its corpse. The sword of KRONUX embedded in a stone slab behind it, humming with power.
Tulopia helped him down from the platform, her hand steady on his arm. "You did it."
He barely nodded, wiping soot from his brow. The air around them shimmered, heat still thick as oil.
The group moved deeper into the city. Down winding streets, past scorched statues of fire elementals and kings long forgotten. At the center stood a shattered fountain—its basin black with soot, glassy from years of magical overflow. Beneath it, half-hidden behind warped metal and rubble, they found a stairway spiraling down into the undercity.
Dexter paused. A sharp pain stabbed behind his eyes.
And then, a whisper.
Soft. Almost melodic.
"Down… deeper… where flame remembers…"
He flinched.
Tulopia noticed. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he lied. "Just… a headache."
He wasn't sure why he didn't tell her the truth. Maybe because it didn't sound like the Ring. It felt… older. Personal.
They descended into darkness.
The walls glowed faintly with ember-runes, still warm after centuries. Heat rose from the depths, curling around them like a serpent. By the time they reached the lowest vaults, their faces glistened with sweat, and every breath came with a faint hiss of steam.
Ahead, the tunnel opened into a vast chamber.
The Heartforge.
A cathedral carved from black stone, with molten rivers running through grooves in the floor. At its center, suspended above a pit of living flame, hovered a shard—crystalline, jagged, red-gold. It pulsed like a heartbeat.
Dexter stopped. The Ring flared—brighter, hotter.
And then, the whisper returned.
"You are not the first, little bearer. But you may be the last."
He staggered. The voice was inside him now—female, ancient, vast. Not seductive. Sovereign.
Tulopia caught his arm. "Dex?"
"I'm fine. I just… I have to touch it."
"Yes," the voice coaxed. "Touch me. Rekindle what was broken. Let the flame remember its name."
He stepped onto the platform.
The heat embraced him.
Fire erupted.
A column of flame shot from the pit, engulfing the shard—and him. Riven shouted, but his voice was drowned. Aela raised her staff, but a wave of heat threw her back.
Dexter stood in the inferno, untouched.
The Ring scorched against his skin. In his mind's eye, a figure appeared—regal, towering, cloaked in living flame. Eyes like burning coals. Hair like solar flares. Her presence filled the chamber without a sound.
The Flamebound Queen.
"You carry the burden of choice," she said, her voice rumbling through his bones. "The Ring awakens. But to bind fire, you must feed it."
"Who are you?"
"I was keeper of the Second Flame. Betrayed by the one who wore the Ring before you. Will you do the same?"
"I'm not him."
"No. But you could be."
Flames lashed out—not to destroy, but to test. They wrapped around him, probing. Digging into memory. Pain. Regret.
They found plenty.
But they also found something else.
Determination.
The flames receded.
The Queen's face softened—maybe approval. Maybe warning. "Then take my shard. But know this: fire does not yield. It consumes. Even you."
Then she vanished.
The flames died.
Dexter dropped to one knee, gasping for breath. The shard hovered before him, its light steadier now. He reached for it.
It clicked into the Ring with a sound like steel meeting steel.
The second piece.
Tulopia rushed to his side. "You alright?"
He nodded, hand still trembling. "I'm fine."
Aela approached, touching his shoulder. "Something happened, didn't it?"
Dexter met her gaze. And for a heartbeat, her eyes reflected not him—but the Queen, crowned in fire, watching.
"I heard her," he whispered. "And I think… she's still with me."
They didn't speak much on the way out. The ruins felt quieter now. As if something deep below had exhaled.
Far above, the clouds churned.
And something moved.
A demon—its wings jagged like razors, its face split by molten scars—hovered briefly, then vanished into the ash.
It had seen the shard awaken.
It would report to PRIMAL.
And the Ring's rebirth had begun.