A week passed.
The skies over the Veil Fortress had not cleared, but something in the air had shifted. The scent of soot still lingered, the horizon remained fractured, and the leyline trembled beneath the soil—but the people stood taller, breathed steadier.
Because the Flame had returned.
And with it, so had hope.
Yet Ashwan remained restless.
He stood at the southern watchtower, cloak fluttering behind him in the chill morning breeze. From this vantage point, he could see the edge of the Mist Ring—a cursed fog barrier stretching across the valley beyond the fortress. It had appeared months ago, marking the border between human territory and the ever-expanding Clanlands.
No soldier who entered the Mist had returned.
Until now.
A horn echoed once.
Then twice.
Then a third time—sharper, faster.
A return signal.
Ashwan turned sharply. The guards atop the wall were already lowering ropes. Figures moved in the haze—three silhouettes, stumbling, limping, barely visible through the thick fog. But even from a distance, Ashwan knew the crest on their shoulderplates.
> "Flame Scout Division. Third Wing."
He was already descending the tower before they cleared the field.
---
In the triage tent, Ashwan approached the cots where the survivors were being tended. The medics stepped aside, murmuring quiet prayers.
Only one scout was conscious.
The other two—one blind, the other comatose—were being stabilized with soulstitch mantra.
The conscious one, a young woman with a broken arm and a scorched face, saluted with her good hand.
"Rani Velur, Third Wing, reporting."
Ashwan knelt beside her. "You made it back. That alone speaks volumes."
Rani's voice trembled. "Sir… there's something in the Mist. We… we saw a tower."
Ashwan narrowed his eyes. "A tower?"
She nodded. "Not built by demons. Not twisted like Clan architecture. It was stone. Tamil stonework. Old script. It looked… human. But it shouldn't exist that far in."
Thyrol, who had arrived silently behind Ashwan, scoffed. "Could be a leftover structure. The Mist devours visibility. Illusions—"
"No," Rani cut in, her voice suddenly sharp. "I touched the gate. It opened."
Silence followed.
Ashwan stared at her. "It reacted to you?"
She nodded. "It whispered… names. Mine wasn't one of them. But yours was."
Ashwan blinked.
"Ashwan Raithe. Keeper of the Veil. Flameblood of the Third Epoch."
Thyrol's expression twisted. "That's impossible. The Third Epoch ended centuries ago—before the Fall, even before the Eastern Collapse."
Ashwan stood slowly, eyes far away.
"Did the tower have a name?"
Rani hesitated. "We saw a glyph… burnt into the stone over the door. It said:
'Thondra Kottai.'"
Ruvana, entering the tent just then, froze mid-step.
"That name," she whispered, "is from the old fire legends. The Unburning Fortress. A sanctuary that survived three extinctions and never fell."
Ashwan looked at his palm, where the Final Flame's residual warmth still lingered faintly.
If what Rani said was true… if the Unburning Fortress still stood in the Clanlands…
Then the war was not just about survival anymore.
It was about reclaiming what was lost.
---
That night, Ashwan held council in the Inner War Hall.
The scout's words had shaken the core of every strategist.
Yalini, the priestess, was already poring over ancient texts.
Thyrol was sketching out leyline routes, attempting to map the Mist's fluctuations.
And Ruvana simply asked, "When do we go?"
Ashwan stood before the map of the southern territories. A single red mark now rested on the far side of the Mist—burning faint, like a spark on old parchment.
"Not yet," he said.
"We prepare.
We train.
We send eyes and ears through the fog.
Because whatever is inside Thondra Kottai… it remembers us.
And it might just be waiting."