Night draped the valley in a heavy cloak when the three riders reached the encampment.

  The air smelled of iron and dying embers; the low murmur of sentries blended with the crackle of fires that still resisted the mountain wind. Between the tents arranged in a half-moon stood a scarletstandard, its emblem barely visible in the torchlight: a raven with wings outstretched.

  The men dismounted without a word. The one with the scarred cheek moved first, silent and deliberate, his companions close behind. They headed straight toward the camp’s center, where a young lieutenant waited—eyes fierce, features sharpened by discipline. They exchanged hushed words, lost beneath the soldiers’ murmuring and the restless hiss of the fire. No one else ever learned what was said.

  The lieutenant nodded once and motioned for the scarred man to follow. Together they crossed the camp toward the largest tent, where a faint glow still burned.

  Riven stood outside his quarters, perfectly still. His black cloak fell straight from his shoulders; in his right hand he held a cloth, polishing his sword again and again, though the blade already shone like a mirror. His gaze rested on the steel, but his thoughts were far away—places no one else was ever invited.

  He was young, scarcely thirty, dark-skinned, sharp-featured. A shadow of a beard roughened his jaw; his close-cropped black hair only emphasized the severity of his bearing. Even motionless, he commanded respect. He was a man forged by war and for war, one who still clung to honor even when serving it in lands where honor no longer held meaning.

  The lieutenant approached, inclining his head.

  “My lord,” he said, voice low. “The scouts confirm it. The Mark has been sighted. The bearer is in a village south of the valley.”

  Riven didn’t answer immediately. He drew the cloth along the blade one last time—as if finishing a ritual—before lifting his eyes. They were black as the storm beyond the mountains. For a heartbeat, the silence felt heavier than the night itself.

  “You are certain?”

  “Certain. Three witnesses.”

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  Riven did not flinch. He simply stepped forward into the camp’s glow, adjusted his sword belt, lifted the blade, and studied it. Firelight ran cold along the steel before he slid it back into its scabbard. For an instant he hesitated, as if an ancient voice brushed against his mind. Then he nodded slowly.

  “Bring him alive,” he said. “My lord wants him alive. Do not forget.”

  The lieutenant bowed. The scarred man vanished into the darkness without looking back. The camp stirred—rushed steps, horses snorting nervously. Torches threw moving shadows across the tents.

  The hunt had begun.

  ***

  Meanwhile, in the small cabin on Hearthglen’s edge, the night felt almost peaceful.

  The hearth cracked softly; the scent of soup and fresh-cut wood drifted through the room. Alden slept—but uneasily. He twisted under the sheets, sweat beading on his brow, his breath coming fast.

  In his mind, the world burned.

  He saw an ancient, ruined temple strangled by ivy and ash. An icy wind moaned through fallen columns, and between them stood a woman wreathed in light. He could not see her face, but he felt her gaze upon him.

  A voice—calm, vast—spoke not to his ears, but inside his chest:

  “The time has come. Seek the Oracle in the ruins of Aeryndor. Only she knows the path.”

  The Mark on his chest ignited. Pain tore him from the dream.

  Alden jolted awake, gasping. For a moment he had no sense of place; the room felt too dark, too still, as though the dream clung to the shadows. His skin burned beneath his shirt. When he pulled the fabric aside, the flame-shaped mark still throbbed with heat—as if something ancient had stirred within him.

  “What happened?” Kaelor’s voice came from the doorway as he strode in.

  For an instant, Kaelor thought he saw a strange light in Alden’s eyes—an amber flare, almost golden—that vanished when the boy blinked.

  Alden rubbed his chest, still shaken.

  “I dreamed of… someone. A woman. She spoke to me. Told me to find the Oracle… that the time had come.”

  Kaelor watched him in silence, his expression tightening—not with surprise, but with the weight of memories he had long kept buried.

  Kael slipped in without a sound and leaned on the doorframe. Firelight traced worry across his usually easy features.

  “Maybe it was just a dream,” he muttered, though doubt laced his voice.

  Kaelor still said nothing.

  He stepped to the window and nudged the curtain aside. A strange wind rattled the shutters, carrying a faint, unfamiliar scent.

  Then he saw it.

  A red glow stained the horizon above the village. Smoke rose in thick columns into the night sky.

  “Fire,” he whispered.

  Alden spun and bolted for the door.

  “The village!” he shouted, vanishing into the cold dark.

  Kaelor seized a sword from the wall, grabbed another, and tossed it to Kael.

  “Move,” he said, voice steady as steel.

  Kael caught the blade and nodded. They ran after Alden, their footsteps swallowed by the rising roar of flames and the first screams shattering Hearthglen’s quiet.

  And on the wind came the distant cry of a raven.