Archmage Reborn: the path of shadows

The stars over Elmsfall didn't speak that night.

They just hung there—cold and distant—like watchers who'd already seen too much.

Kael stood on the edge of a blackened cliff, the wind toying with his tattered cloak as it carried the ghost-scent of scorched stone and broken promises. Below, the ruins of the fortress still smoldered, flickering like dying eyes that refused to close.

They called him the Flame Sovereign reborn.

He didn't feel sovereign.

He felt hunted.

Hollow.

And somehow, more awake than he'd felt since the day they killed him.

A voice—soft but steady—cut through the hush.

"You should be resting."

Kael didn't turn. "So should you, Lira."

Her footsteps were light but deliberate as she approached. She stopped beside him, hands tucked behind her back, gaze locked on the horizon's glow.

"The Warden's remnants are gone," she said. "Your little show with the Ash Crown melted what was left."

Kael didn't answer right away.

"Good," he muttered.

She glanced at him sideways. "And Serana?"

He exhaled slowly. The name alone scraped against something raw.

"Alive," he said at last. "But... far."

"You going to tell her the truth?"

Kael's jaw tensed. "What truth?"

"That you still love her."

A flicker passed through his expression—half-broken, half-amused.

"Or that I don't trust myself not to hurt her again?"

"Same truth," Lira said.

The silence that followed wasn't empty. It held everything neither of them wanted to say.

Eventually, Lira folded her arms. "There's a scout waiting. From the border camp. Says she has information. Insisted she'd only speak to you."

"Name?"

"She didn't give one. Just said you'd know her."

That was enough.

Kael turned without another word.

"Lead the way."

The camp had been thrown together in a hurry—tents braced against the wind, watchfires burning low, soldiers keeping their weapons close. Kael passed mercenaries from the Silver Hand standing at attention, refugees wrapped in sleep and paranoia, and his own—mages, soulmarked fighters, bloodstained outcasts—all watching the dark with eyes that had seen too much.

He stepped into the central tent.

And stopped.

"Kael," the woman seated near the center said calmly.

His breath caught in his chest.

"Velra."

She hadn't changed. The same silver hair tied back in practiced discipline. The same faint emerald glyphs tracing her neck. The same quiet voice, smooth as silk, hiding something sharper beneath.

"I heard the dead were walking," she said. "Didn't think you'd be one of them."

Kael's fingers didn't twitch, but they were ready.

He kept his voice even. "Why are you here?"

"To offer a trade."

He raised an eyebrow. "And what could you possibly have that I'd want?"

Velra leaned in slightly, eyes catching the glow of the fire.

"The name of the one who really killed you."

The air inside the tent thickened.

Kael's pulse drummed low and slow.

"Speak," he said.

"Not here. Too many ears." She motioned toward the tent's flap. "Walk with me."

A pause. Then a nod.

They walked past the edge of the firelight, where the air turned colder and the land fell silent, save for the rustle of dry leaves and old memories.

"You were always too proud to beg," Velra murmured. "Even with chains on your wrists."

Kael didn't flinch. "Say what you came to say."

She stopped.

"I know what they told you. That Serana betrayed you. That she was the one who doomed you."

His eyes narrowed. "She didn't have to stab me to betray me."

"No. But she didn't save you either."

Kael's expression darkened, but she pressed on.

"You want the truth? It wasn't her hand that ended you. It was Velron."

That name stopped everything.

Kael stared at her, as if he hadn't heard right.

"Velron?"

"Your second. Your most trusted. He sold you out to the Council. Took a Divine Soul Pill in exchange for your location."

"No," Kael said, voice low and rough. "That's not true."

"I wish it wasn't."

His chest tightened.

He remembered Velron's laugh. The nights they planned battles. The oath they swore when the Council was just an idea.

"You're lying."

Velra stepped closer, but not threateningly.

"I have no reason to. I want him dead too."

"Why tell me now?"

She tilted her head, something bitter creeping into her smile.

"Because you're still playing by rules written by men who buried you alive. You talk about justice, Kael, but you're chasing ghosts in a rigged game."

His hands stayed still. But inside, his soulcore quaked.

If Velron had done this... if that betrayal had been under his nose the whole time...

Then what else had he built on lies?

"You'll find him in the Eastern Marches," Velra said, stepping away. "With the Council's blessing. And a blade meant for your back."

She turned, just before vanishing into the night.

"Don't forget to look over your shoulder this time."

And then she was gone, like smoke in the wind—leaving behind only silence, and a fire that refused to go out.