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CHAPTER 10 — The Quiet Before the Inferno
The sky was bruised with ash.
Morning light struggled through the veil of smoke that clung to the ruined valley like a curse, dim and cold. The scent of burnt soil still haunted the air, a memory of everything the Ashen Circle had destroyed to rise again.
Kael stood alone at the ridge overlooking the valley, his cloak torn, his armor darkened by soot. The wind pressed against him, tugging at the scorched hem of his cloak, whispering of war. Behind him, the remnants of his followers gathered in silence — men and women who had crawled through hell to stand behind their commander once more.
There were no songs, no prayers, no hope. Only breath. Only waiting.
"Do you feel it?" whispered Riven, his second-in-command. His voice trembled with something between awe and fear. "The stillness. Like the world itself is holding its breath."
Kael did not turn. His eyes followed the horizon — a jagged scar of black mountains in the distance. Beyond them, his enemies gathered, sharpening blades and tongues alike.
"Yes," Kael said finally. "It's the silence that comes before a storm decides who will burn."
He reached down, brushing his fingers across the ground. The ashes crumbled under his touch — remains of both enemies and friends. He could almost feel their blood whispering through the soil, calling his name like a prayer.
When he stood again, there was no hesitation in his stance, no mercy in his gaze.
"Tonight," Kael said, his voice carrying through the cold morning, "we march. We end what they began. No more hiding. No more chains. We set the world aflame — and let it remember who we are."
The crowd did not cheer. They only lowered their heads, pressing hands to hearts. The Ashen Circle did not celebrate war. They became it.
Behind them, tents flapped in the wind — patched together from torn banners and enemy cloaks. The camp smelled of steel, blood, and smoke. Every man and woman knew their place, their weapons gleaming with dull hunger.
As the day dragged on, Kael retreated into his tent. There, in the quiet, he found the map — spread across a cracked table, ink-stained with vengeance. His fingers traced the enemy stronghold: Blackspire Fortress. The name alone brought a thousand memories — screams, betrayals, and the night his brother fell.
Kael's eyes burned. "You'll be avenged," he murmured, his voice low enough that only ghosts could hear.
From outside, the sound of sharpening blades and hushed oaths filled the air. The Circle prepared not out of duty, but out of rage carved into bone.
And when night finally fell — when the fire pits died to embers and the stars emerged like faint wounds in the sky — Kael rose once more.
He stepped outside. The cold bit into his face. The valley slept beneath a pale moon, but there was no peace in it — only the promise of blood.
"Riven," Kael said softly.
The lieutenant appeared beside him, eyes glinting like a predator's. "It's time?"
Kael nodded. "It's time."
They walked toward the edge of the camp. The warriors followed — silent as shadows. And as they descended the valley, the ground itself seemed to shiver beneath their march.
The Ashen Circle had been broken once.
Now, they would break the world.
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