As the weight of Ren's actions sank in,
Kaelis's sword hovered at his throat, the wind whipping sand through the tense tableau. He stood motionless, her accusation hanging heavy in the air. To her, he was now a dangerous murderer.
Across from them, Castor Green stepped forward—his gun leveled at Kaelis's breastplate, calm as one might point at a gathering storm.
"You pride yourself as an element of chaos, don't you? An X-factor," Kaelis hissed, her voice low and honed with irritation.
"If I wanted chaos, I'd stand still," Castor replied, unmoving.
Ren watched them both with a solemn gaze, the desert sun gilding their standoff. Before either could speak again, a distant thunder of hooves split the silence.
On the ridge, seventy-nine riders appeared, each astride a burnished Embersteed—a legendary breed with copper coats and hooves like molten iron. Their golden manes streamed behind them as they charged, swords flashing beneath ornate helms. They wore the same grey-runed armor as Kaelis, their banners crackling with the Ashen sigil.
Castor's hand drifted toward his pistol—then froze. He stepped back, hands raised in a silent truce.
Kaelis's eyes flickered between Ren and the approaching host. "The Order," she breathed.
Within moments, they were surrounded. Embersteeds snorted, riders dismounted, and two dozen Ashen warriors advanced. In under thirty seconds, Ren and Castor were seized—gripped by heavy arms, shackled in ash-etched manacles, and bound to tall Embersteeds themselves.
Kaelis alone remained unbound, her gaze trembling as her allies hauled Ren and Castor toward the distant silhouette of the Ashen Tower.
The Ashen Tower rose from the plain like a blade plunged into the earth—black basalt walls engraved with silver runes, tier upon tier of balconies and flying buttresses, crowned by a ring of crenellations that caught the sun's last embers. Gargoyles of molten stone glared down at everything below, and banners of twilight grey snapped in the wind.
Ren's wrists burned where the manacles bit into his skin. Castor's carrier rode beside him. Calm as always, Castor grimaced only once—when they passed Kaelis, whose wounded arm was being treated. The physician's gaunt face never shifted as he wrapped her shoulder in salted rags, whispering in a tongue Ren did not know.
At the main gate, they dismounted. Kaelis, sword still at her hip, lingered—her eyes locking with Ren's. Behind her, the great doors of the tower swung shut with a thunderous clang.
In the tower, all attention turned to the detainment of Ren and Castor, preparations for their interrogation already underway.
"Separate them," barked a silver-haired captain.
Two cells awaited—side by side, barred by molten-iron grilles.
Ren entered his cell and turned to the adjoining grate. Castor was already seated, head bowed.
"I thought you might be mute until I heard you speak," Ren said, voice echoing in the stone chamber.
Castor looked up, eyes cool behind mirrored lenses. "I speak when it matters."
"Well, now it matters to me. There are things I need to understand," Ren pressed.
Castor tilted his head. "Ask. You have three questions."
Ren swallowed. "Who are you?"
"Castor Green."
Ren nodded, as if the name alone explained everything. He paused, then asked again. "Why did you defend me?"
Castor's gaze held steady. "I saw you in a dream." He let the words hang. "Our fates are intertwined—though I do not yet understand how."
Ren considered that. "They'll interrogate me?" he muttered.
"Yes. Let them," Castor replied. "It's all just to find out something I already know."
A sudden roar rose above them—the clash of steel on steel, the thunder of armored boots. Both prisoners turned to the bars just as an emissary burst into the courtyard above, flanked by fifty black-armored soldiers.
"I demand the killer of Stevan Gorr!" the newcomer bellowed. His voice rang with cold authority. "He was an asset of mine."
Kaelis sprang forward. She knew the voice. "I claimed his end," she declared. "I slew him."
"Very well, then," the enemy boomed. "Deliver her to me."
A hush fell across the courtyard.
Then the High Castellan of the Ashen Order—Kaelis's mentor and father-figure, Jobe—strode forward, hand raised. "You err, Varren," he said, his voice patient but firm. "Kaelis serves the Ashen Creed. She did not act in solitude. You have no authority here."
Varren's masked face cracked in a bitter smile. He had once been an Ashen Sword himself—but disillusionment had led him to found a guild of zealots, furious with Thelos' drift into godlessness.
Steel rang out as Varren's guards charged—but the Ashen warriors met them blade for blade. Within minutes, the invaders lay scattered—some disarmed, others captured.
Then the ground trembled.
A darkness rippled across the courtyard as Varren strode to the center. With one effortless motion, he crushed an opponent's heart in his fist and hurled the corpse across the plaza. Stone pillars splintered. The air trembled with power—something ancient and vile. He had touched the Wyrd.
Kaelis, recognizing the danger, vanished from the fray, reappearing in the cell chamber.
"Flee," she rasped to Ren and Castor, wrenching open both doors.
Even as chaos erupted above, she helped them up. Blood stained her bandages, but her grip never faltered.
As she turned to rejoin the courtyard battle, a hand blocked her path—Jobe. He had come downstairs to see her. Varren, however, wasn't far off. Screams of Ashen-born could be heard from the near distance.
"I have a mission for you, Kaelis. It is your duty to ensure he does not find whatever it is he seeks," Jobe said gravely.
Kaelis gave a silent nod. She was confident. Jobe had never lost a battle—not one. This would be no different.
But it was.
As Kaelis turned away to pursue Ren, the wet sound of tearing muscle froze her mid-step. She whirled back.
Jobe lay crumpled on the stone, his chest caved in, lifeless.
"No!" she screamed, charging Varren in a blind fury.
Varren didn't flinch. One blow disarmed her. Another sent blood spraying from her mouth. He seized her by the neck and held her aloft, eyes cold behind the mask.
He studied her.
And then he whispered, "You were meant to follow me, not stand in my way."
Varren's eyes narrowed with something like curiosity—or disappointment. Still holding her aloft, he drew a long, jagged blade from beneath his cloak, its edge black as night and humming with unnatural energy. He raised it slowly, deliberately, the point hovering just below her ribs. Kaelis's blood bubbled at her lips as she struggled to breathe, her vision tunneling. Then, with a whisper too low to hear, Varren pulled back his arm to strike.