---
CHAPTER 25 — March Toward the Cinder Gate
The camp did not sleep that night.
How could they?
The sky was still cracked — a wounded thing leaking unnatural gold light. Every few minutes, a low pulse rippled through the clouds, like the heartbeat of a titan waking somewhere far beyond mortal sight.
Dragonsong stood at the ridge overlooking the valley, cape whipping in the cold wind. He hadn't spoken since the Herald's revelation. Every soldier who passed him kept a careful distance, as if he was suddenly made of volatile magic.
Maybe he was.
Arin approached, silent for once. He didn't stand beside Dragonsong; he stood slightly behind him, unsure whether he was approaching a friend… or something becoming far more than human.
"You should rest," Arin said finally.
"I can't," Dragonsong replied.
"You're afraid."
"No," Dragonsong said. "I'm remembering."
Arin frowned. "Remembering what?"
Dragonsong didn't answer — not immediately. He watched the crack in the sky as another pulse of gold flickered through it, and something old, buried deep in his bones, stirred with it.
"The Cinder Gate," Dragonsong murmured. "I've seen it before."
Arin stiffened. "In a vision?"
"No. In a memory."
Before Arin could ask further, footsteps approached. The Herald — still trembling, still half-collapsed with exhaustion — forced herself up the ridge. Her skin glowed faintly, like embers cooling after a flame.
"You must leave before dawn," she said. "The Sovereign's awakening speeds with each passing hour."
Arin frowned. "Where exactly is the Cinder Gate?"
The Herald pointed beyond the eastern mountains, where the horizon glowed faintly.
"Far," she said. "Farther than mortals can walk in a lifetime. But the Sovereign's influence is bleeding into the world. Paths that were once closed will open… rivers will shift… the land itself will move to take you to him."
"That doesn't sound comforting," Arin muttered.
"It shouldn't," the Herald replied. "The world is bending. This is not a blessing."
Dragonsong finally turned toward her.
"What exactly do you expect from me?" he asked.
The Herald hesitated — then bowed her head.
"You were born from the ashes of the Sovereign's death," she said softly. "His power did not vanish; it chose another vessel. You are that vessel."
Dragonsong clenched his hands. "I didn't ask for this."
"No one chosen ever does."
A cold silence fell.
Below them, the soldiers prepared to move — packing tents, sharpening blades, whispering prayers. Word had spread. Dragonsong could hear the murmurs even from the ridge:
"Is he really chosen?"
"Replace the Sovereign?"
"Will he destroy us… or save us?"
Fear. Awe. Doubt.
He understood all of them — because he felt all of them inside himself.
"We march at first light," Dragonsong finally said. "Whether the world bends or not, we face the Gate."
Arin nodded, relieved to hear his voice steady again. "Good. I'll prepare the men."
He left.
Dragonsong remained, staring at the sky, until he felt the Herald's weak presence beside him.
"You're stronger than you think," she whispered.
"No," Dragonsong replied. "I'm just the one who survived."
"Survived what?"
Dragonsong turned his hand palm-up — and a small ember of black-gold flame flickered across his skin.
The same flame that burned in the Sovereign's throne-room vision.
The Herald stepped back, fear widening her eyes.
Dragonsong closed his fist, snuffing the flame.
"I survived him," he said. "Once."
The Herald swallowed. "Then you may be the only one who can face him again."
A horn sounded from the camp. The signal: preparations complete.
Dragonsong nodded once and descended from the ridge. Soldiers straightened as he passed, fear mixing with respect. Arin joined him at the front lines, adjusting his cloak.
"You ready?" Arin asked.
"No," Dragonsong said honestly. "But we go anyway."
The Herald raised her hand. A faint path of glowing dust formed across the ground, stretching toward the mountains — bending reality itself.
"The world is opening the way," she said. "The Cinder Gate awaits."
Dragonsong stepped onto the path. It pulsed beneath his feet like a living thing.
Arin followed.
The army followed.
And behind them, the cracked sky whispered with the voice of something ancient — something waking, hungry, and remembering its throne.
The march toward destiny had begun.
---