The journey back from the ruins was quiet. Not silent—Ren filled the time with half-hearted jokes and questions about the strange realm they had just escaped—but quiet in the way that followed storms. Callan's thoughts weighed heavy, replaying the encounter with his darker self like a broken song.
As they descended the mountain, the ruins behind them lost their shape in the distance, swallowed once more by fog and time. But something about the world felt different. Tense. As if nature itself had taken a breath—and held it.
Ren caught on first.
"Do you feel that?" he asked.
Callan nodded. "The air's thicker. Something's wrong."
They picked up their pace.
By the time they reached the outskirts of Molstein—a quiet town nestled in the valley—the sun had vanished behind thick clouds. Smoke lingered in the distance.
Callan's jaw tightened. He knew that kind of smoke.
Not hearthfire. Not industry.
Warfire.
They arrived at the village too late.
Half the town was in ashes. Buildings reduced to husks. Roads slick with blood. Survivors huddled in small groups, dazed and silent. Soldiers with black scarves tied around their arms moved through the rubble, methodical, as if finishing a ritual.
Callan and Ren ducked behind a broken cart.
"Who are they?" Ren whispered.
Callan narrowed his eyes. The emblem on the soldiers' scarves was familiar: a black flame with a serpent's tail.
It couldn't be.
"The Children of Cinder," he said darkly.
Ren looked at him. "Who?"
"A cult," Callan muttered. "Formed after the Demon Generals fell. Fanatics who believed the old ways were the only truth. They see the fall of the demonic empire as betrayal… and me as a traitor."
Ren frowned. "So they want to bring it back?"
"Worse," Callan said. "They want to finish what we started—only without mercy this time."
Suddenly, a scream rang out.
From behind a ruined stable, a young woman broke free and ran—only to be grabbed by two cultists and slammed into the mud. A third raised a cruelly curved blade.
Callan didn't think. He moved.
By the time the blade came down, Callan's sword intercepted it, sparks flying.
The cultist's eyes widened. "You—!"
Callan twisted and shattered the blade, then kicked the man back into a stack of crates. Ren leapt in beside him, knives flashing.
"Go!" Ren shouted to the girl. "Run!"
She fled as the remaining cultists turned toward them.
One pointed. "It's him! The Fallen General!"
More emerged from the smoke—at least a dozen, maybe more.
Callan raised his blade.
"Ren," he said calmly, "don't hold back."
Ren grinned. "Wasn't planning to."
The clash was brutal.
The Children of Cinder weren't just zealots—they were trained. Their movements mirrored the old techniques of the demonic armies: brutal strikes, coordinated assaults, and no regard for civilian life.
But they were undisciplined. Fueled by rage, not strategy.
Callan cut through them like fire through parchment. Every movement precise. Efficient. He wasn't the general they idolized—he was better. Sharper.
Ren danced through the chaos, agile as a shadow. He leapt, twisted, rolled, and struck with pinpoint accuracy, disabling two cultists at once with a sweep of his daggers.
Within minutes, the battle was over.
The last cultist tried to crawl away, but Callan grabbed him by the collar and lifted him off the ground.
"Why Molstein?" he demanded. "Why now?"
The man coughed, blood dripping from his lips. But he smiled. "You're too late. The flame has already been lit."
Callan frowned. "What flame?"
"The First Pyre," the man whispered. "At the heart of the old capital. The ashes will rise again. And he is coming."
Callan's eyes narrowed. "Who?"
But the man only laughed, even as his breath rattled in his lungs. "Your heir…"
He died with that smile still on his lips.
They buried the bodies as best they could. The townsfolk were shaken, but grateful. One of the elders—a wiry man with gray streaks in his beard—approached them after.
"We heard stories," he said. "Of the Ashen General. We feared your name… but you saved us."
Callan didn't respond.
The elder offered a small box. "This was recovered from one of their leaders. It's locked, but it might be important."
Inside the box was a sealed parchment and an obsidian ring bearing the same black flame sigil. Ren turned the ring over in his hand.
"Why would they leave this?" he asked.
Callan took the parchment and broke the seal.
The message was written in blood-inked characters.
"To the Betrayer: Your throne still waits. The old war is not over.Come to Cindermarch. Face the flames. Or they will come to you."
Callan exhaled slowly.
Ren frowned. "Cindermarch? That place's been dead for twenty years."
"Exactly," Callan said. "Which makes it the perfect place to start a resurrection."
They left Molstein the next morning.
The path to Cindermarch would take them through the Scorching Reaches—barren land once devastated by demonic firestorms. Few dared travel that way anymore. Not because of beasts, but because of memories.
As they crossed the burnt fields, Callan recalled what the cultist said.
Your heir.
Could it be? He had no children—at least none he knew of. But during the height of the war, the generals were not exactly known for restraint. If someone had survived… if one of his blood had been raised by zealots…
It chilled him more than the wind.
Ren must've sensed it.
"You okay?" he asked.
Callan nodded. "Just thinking."
"About what?"
Callan hesitated. "About what happens when your sins don't stay buried."
Ren didn't press. He walked beside him in silence, blades sheathed, eyes forward.
That night, they camped under the broken remains of a stone archway—once part of a demon war gate, now just ruins.
As they ate, Ren glanced at him. "You think this heir thing is real?"
Callan stared into the fire.
"I don't know," he said. "But if it is… and they're trying to finish what I started…"
He clenched his fists.
"…then I have to stop them. No matter who they are."
Elsewhere…
Deep beneath Cindermarch, where the ruins of the old palace lay in darkness, a boy stood before a blazing pyre.
He was no older than twenty. Slender, sharp-eyed. A long coat of black leather hung from his shoulders, and the ring of the Children of Cinder glowed on his finger.
Around him knelt dozens of cultists, chanting.
He stepped forward and cast a handful of bone ash into the fire. The flames screamed—yes, screamed—and rose higher.
From within the pyre, something stirred.
A massive figure bound in chains. Its form flickered—half-corporeal, half-shadow. Horns curled from its head. Its eyes were empty voids.
The boy smiled.
"Father," he whispered, "your time has come again."