The Last Emberborn

The storm of battle raged on, shaking the square.

Veyr's chains lashed like serpents, tearing gouges into stone and sending dust and debris flying. His movements were fluid, precise, and sadistic—each strike meant to inflict pain, not just kill. Garrik met him with sheer defiance, his axe singing as it clashed against the whirling tendrils of darkness.

But the old warrior was faltering.

Sweat streamed down Garrik's temples. His footing grew heavier with each strike. Though his form was flawless, Veyr's relentless assault pushed him beyond the limits of endurance. Every blow came sharper, closer.

"You're strong," Veyr hissed, the edge of delight in his voice unmistakable. "Stronger than most I've broken. But all things crack. Even iron."

He licked the blood from a cut on his lip and grinned. "Shall we test your breaking point?"

Garrik said nothing, just breathed steadily, battered but unyielding.

Then Veyr's eyes gleamed unnaturally, like pits of fire.

"I haven't used this in a long time," he murmured.

He raised his hand, and the chains stilled mid-air. A low hum began to resonate, like the haunting whisper of something ancient. The air turned cold. Even the shadows trembled.

"Gaze of the Grave."

Chains shot forward and wrapped around Garrik's chest, arms, legs—pulling him into place.

Then the pain began.

Garrik didn't bleed. Not outwardly. But his eyes widened as his body jerked violently. He saw it—visions burned into his mind. Himself, gutted, torn, crushed, burned alive in a thousand cruel forms. And with each vision, he felt it all. Every scream, every death. Not real—but not false either.

He gasped, biting down to suppress the cry. His axe clattered to the ground.

Veyr stepped closer, savoring the agony written across Garrik's face. "You feel it, don't you? Not death—but truth. The truth of your end. Your blood remembers fear even when your mind resists it."

Garrik dropped to a knee, chains tightening. His breath came in ragged gasps. He was losing himself in the darkness..In his dream like state he kept on being torn to shreds by unrelenting sharp chains. This was a fate worse than death.

Veyr tilted his head. "What's wrong, old man? Did you think you'd save him? That you could change fate? well ive had my fun, you were amusing , nonetheless ."

The words struck deep.

Garrik's eyes closed.

He reached, not with strength—but memory.

And in the silence of pain, he heard it:

"Iron speaks… and I listen."

His pulse steadied. The visions still tore at him—but he no longer clung to them. He let them burn, let the pain crash against him like waves against a cliff.

And then, the chains shattered.

A pulse of force erupted outward as Garrik rose, axe in hand, his form centered like a mountain amidst the chaos. His stance was unshaken, his eyes sharp.

"You talk too much," he said.

Veyr blinked. His smirk returned—but this time, there was tension beneath it.

Garrik surged forward, axe blurring in motion. No fury. No wildness. Only precision. He struck with the weight of every lesson learned, every day in the forge, every scar earned in silence.

Veyr barely deflected. His chains met steel, but now it was Veyr who gave ground.

Garrik was unrelenting. The Iron Form flowed through him, a dance of disciplined destruction. Each movement stripped Veyr of his confidence.

"Impossible," Veyr spat. "You were broken—no one walks out of the Grave!"

"I was broken," Garrik said, his voice low. "But alas even a broken weapon can be reforged into something greater ."

He slammed his axe down, shattering the chains below them and sending Veyr flying back into a stone wall.

The impact cracked the masonry, dust rising around the crumpled figure.

And for the first time, Veyr looked uncertain.

The wind howled across the silent square.

And Draven, still unconscious nearby, stirred slightly as embers flickered from his fingertips.

The fight wasn't over.

But the tide had shifted.

Veyr stumbled back, hissing. The chains reeled inward like frightened serpents. His hood fell slightly, revealing the sharp line of his jaw and the snarl that curled his lips.

Garrik stood tall now, blood on his brow, his chest heaving, axe raised.

"Iron speaks," he said once more, quieter now, but full of weight.

Veyr gave a dark chuckle, low and ragged.

"So… that's what it feels like to bleed." He wiped the corner of his mouth and stared at the red smear on his glove. "I almost forgot."

He exhaled slowly, as if grounding himself — then snapped his fingers.

Chains ignited from the earth again, faster, wilder — but Garrik moved with a grace now that bordered on terrifying. He wasn't faster than the chains — he was earlier. Anticipating. Flowing with their rhythm before they even rose.

He sidestepped one, ducked under another, spun low and cleaved through a third. His axe rang with a humming echo, every movement clean, every footfall planted like a smith at his anvil.

Veyr's smile twisted into something more unstable.

"Don't mistake this reversal for victory," he said, voice taut with both awe and venom. "You've earned your moment. But make no mistake—if the conditions favored me, you'd be dead."

He raised his hand and clenched it. The shadows pulsed, then faded slightly, drawing back into his cloak like smoke retreating from a dying flame.

"But now... there are other priorities."

He turned slightly toward the direction Draven had been taken.

"That boy... no, that flame. I've seen enough. He's not some village oddity or hidden bastard of fortune. He is... the mark."

His voice dropped to a reverent murmur, almost wistful.

"A black ember in a world that forgot fire."

Then he looked back at Garrik, eyes narrowing.

"And for that, I must return. The Order must know. Our course must shift."

Garrik raised his axe again. "You're not leaving."

Veyr paused… then laughed. A slow, throaty sound — not loud, but cutting.

"I admire your grit, old man. But even you must realize — this fight is spent."

He spread his arms mockingly. "Push this further, and I'll show you why most never earn my name."

He held out his hand, and a swirling gate of shadows began to rise behind him, tendrils curling outward like roots seeking blood.

"I will not forget your face," Veyr said. "Or that boy's."

He stepped halfway into the portal, then stopped.

"One day soon, the fires will rise again. And when they do…" He tilted his head.

"Make sure he burns the world before it burns him."

With that, Veyr vanished into the gate, which folded inward and vanished like a breath in frost.

The square fell still.

Garrik remained standing, axe still raised, eyes locked on where the shadows had disappeared. For a long while, he didn't move.

Then, slowly, his grip loosened.

His body trembled with exhaustion — not just from the fight, but from the truth pressing down on his shoulders. The truth he could no longer deny.

The Emberborn had awakened.

And the world would soon remember what that meant.