The Ember Fields smoldered long after the clash ended. Smoke curled into the storm clouds, carrying the stench of charred banners and broken bodies. Kael stood among the wreckage, sword heavy in his hand, armor streaked with blood and ash.
Tharos crouched beside him, talons sunk into scorched earth, wings folded but still smoldering faintly. His ember eyes swept the battlefield, watching for movement.
Around them, soldiers cheered hollowly. Their voices rang with triumph, but Kael heard the emptiness beneath. Too many had fallen. Garrick limped through the ranks, his scarred face grim.
"This is only the beginning," Garrick said, his voice low. "The rebellion will not die here. It will spread."
Kael looked at the fallen rebels who had once been farmers, villagers, men who bowed to the same Emperor. His stomach twisted. "They fought like they believed in something."
Garrick's gaze hardened. "Belief can be more dangerous than steel."
Rowan emerged from the smoke, his armor spotless, his smirk intact. He moved like a man untouched by battle, as if the chaos had been staged for his benefit.
"Impressive," Rowan said, his voice dripping with false praise. "The peasant and his pet win another battle. But tell me, Kael how many of these corpses are yours?"
Kael's fists clenched, but Garrick's warning echoed in his mind: Steel cannot silence whispers. He turned away, refusing to give Rowan the satisfaction.
Rowan's smirk widened. "Silence speaks louder than denial." He let the words hang in the air, planting seeds of doubt among the recruits who lingered nearby.
Kael felt their eyes on him uncertain, wavering. Rowan's poison was spreading.
That night, the camp was restless. Fires burned low, shadows stretched long. Recruits whispered in clusters, their voices sharp with suspicion. Some praised Kael's courage, others muttered that Tharos was unnatural, a beast born of sorcery.
Kael walked among them, hearing fragments:
"He fights like a demon."
"No it's the beast. Without it, he's nothing."
"Rowan says he'll bring ruin."
The words cut deeper than any blade. Kael retreated to the edge of camp, where Tharos waited.
Kael sat at the edge of camp, the firelight flickering against his weary face. Tharos lay beside him, wings folded, feathers glowing faintly with ember light.
"They doubt me," Kael whispered, staring into the flames. "They see a peasant, not a soldier."
Tharos pressed his beak against Kael's shoulder, a rumble deep in his chest. Then let them see a legend.
Kael closed his eyes, the words sinking into him like fire. He thought of Garrick's counsel, of Rowan's venom, of the storm rising across the Empire. He was no longer fighting for survival. He was fighting for something greater ,though he did not yet know what.
Later, Garrick found him. The old knight lowered himself onto a stone, his limp more pronounced after the battle.
"You carry too much weight," Garrick said. "The men doubt you because you are different. That doubt will grow unless you turn it into strength."
Kael frowned. "How?"
"By enduring. By proving, again and again, that you are more than whispers. Rowan plays politics. You must play truth. Let your deeds speak."
Kael nodded slowly. Garrick's words were not comfort they were a challenge.
At dawn, horns sounded. Scouts returned with grim news: the rebellion was not confined to the east. Other provinces had risen, banners unfurling across the Empire.
Kael rose, sword at his side, Tharos's wings blazing against the morning sky. Garrick's voice carried across the camp. "The storm is everywhere now. The Emperor will demand blood."
Kael's heart pounded. Rowan smirked in the shadows, his eyes gleaming with malice.
The storm was no longer rising. It had arrived.
And Kael knew the fire that never dies had only just begun to burn.