HAREM: WARLOCK OF THE SOUTH

The torches of the Hall of Embers guttered and flared like lungs struggling for breath. Smoke gathered under the ribs of the stone vaults, and the scent of char and incense clung to every robe, every weapon, every whisper. The chamber had once been a temple to fire—now it was a council room for those who feared it.

Ryon stood at the head of the long table, hands resting on the black-oak surface. Beneath his palms, heat pulsed faintly, as though the wood itself remembered the flames that forged it. His cloak was torn at the hem from the march through the ruins of Maris Vale, but his posture remained unbent. The others were still arriving: warlocks from the southern fortresses, witches from the border covens, and the three remaining arch-sorcerers who had not yet fled the realm.

Elara sat to his right. Her hair was tied back, but strands had escaped to frame a face too pale for comfort. She had not spoken since the summons. Her eyes followed every movement of the room—Ryon's hand, the flicker of flame, the empty chair that had belonged to Ser Dalen before the Veil took him.

When the last door groaned shut, Ryon drew breath, and even the torches seemed to pause.

"Sit," he said.

Chairs scraped stone. Robes rustled. The murmur of spell wards tightening hummed at the edges of hearing.

"This council," Ryon began, "was forbidden three centuries ago. The kings feared that when all our orders gathered, the South might burn from the weight of our magic alone." His gaze moved slowly from face to face. "But the Veil burns already. Our people rot, our rivers choke on ash, and the dead speak in their sleep. So here we are."

No one answered.

Ryon's eyes caught those of Arch-Sorcerer Kael, his oldest teacher, now grey and trembling. "You told me once that fire answers only to truth. Tell me, Kael—what truth does it speak now?"

Kael's lips twitched. "It speaks of hunger. And of debt."

The word hung like smoke. Debt. Ryon felt it strike somewhere deep in his chest—the debt he owed to every life consumed in his wars, to every prayer unanswered since the Veil rose.

Elara shifted beside him. "Then let's pay it," she said quietly. "Before it devours us."

A murmur rippled through the council. The coven-witches exchanged uneasy glances. One of them, a woman with a neck tattooed in runes of binding, leaned forward. "And how would you suggest we pay the hunger of the Veil, my lady? With blood? With souls? You speak like the priests who fed their own to the pyres."

Elara met the woman's eyes. "If sacrifice is demanded, then so be it. But we choose whom to give. Not the innocent. Not again."

Ryon could feel the current shifting—fear tightening around reason like iron bands. He straightened. "The Veil is not a god," he said. "It is a wound. It feeds because it is open. What we need is not another offering but a way to close it."

Kael's staff clicked once against the floor. "And do you know such a way, Warlock of the South?"

Ryon hesitated. Every word he spoke here would seed either hope or rebellion. "I have seen… possibilities. In the ruins. In the dreams the Serpent of Ash left behind."

At that name, several chairs scraped backward. A few of the younger mages made signs of warding. The serpent was a forbidden myth—a spirit that devoured kingdoms.

Elara's voice steadied the air again. "He speaks truth. I saw it too. The serpent was not destruction—it was memory. It showed him what came before the Veil. A gate, sealed by fire and bound by seven hearts."

Kael's eyes flicked to her. "Seven hearts," he murmured. "Seven founders." His gaze shifted back to Ryon. "You mean to unseal what they hid."

Ryon did not answer. Silence said enough.

Then came laughter—dry, brittle. From the end of the table, Warlock Tren rose, his armor still marked with soot. "You bring us here to chase myths? The North gathers armies, our borders bleed, and you speak of serpents and gates?"

Ryon's hand twitched toward the hilt of his blade. Elara's fingers brushed his arm, grounding him.

He drew a slow breath. "If you've a better plan, speak it."

Tren sneered. "Yes. Crown yourself king, burn the Veil, burn the North, burn the gods. You're halfway there already."

The accusation rippled like lightning.

Elara stood. "Enough—"

But Ryon raised his hand. "Let him speak. He is not wrong to fear me." His voice dropped until the flames bent toward it. "Every war leaves ash, and I have walked through mine. But if you think I seek a throne, you have not understood the fire that drives me."

He turned, gesturing toward the window slit where red light seeped through dust. "Look outside. The South dies slowly. The crops that grow turn black at the root. The rain hisses when it falls. We cannot fight the North while fighting the land beneath our feet."

Tren folded his arms. "Then call it what it is—doom. Not destiny."

Ryon's temper flared, but Kael's cracked voice cut through. "Peace." The old man's hand trembled on his staff. "The warlock speaks of closing the wound. Perhaps he is mad. Perhaps he is chosen. Either way, we must know the cost."

"The cost," Ryon said, "is us."

A hush fell.

He felt every heartbeat around the table, every thread of disbelief tightening. "The gate can be sealed only by the blood of those who carry the founders' marks. That is why the Veil hunts us—it feeds on our kind. If we give ourselves willingly, it may end."

Tren slammed his fist on the table. "You would have us die like candles snuffed at dawn?"

Ryon met his glare. "I would have us live long enough for dawn to exist."

For a moment, the chamber was pure stillness. Then Kael sank slowly into his chair. "If your serpent speaks truth, you will need all seven bloodlines. Three are lost. Two are bound to the North. One sleeps beneath the Ashen Sea."

Elara's voice softened. "And one stands here."

All eyes returned to Ryon.

He felt the weight of it press into his chest, heavier than armor. "Then we find the others," he said. "Before the North—or the Veil—does."

No one dared to move for a long moment after Ryon's final words. The firelight trembled against faces drained of color, and the shadows of the council flickered like ghosts along the wall.

Then Kael spoke again, voice low as cracking embers.

"Finding the others will mean crossing every border we have burned. You'll need passage through the North's occupied valleys, through the Black Mire, through places where even the stars no longer shine. You understand what that means?"

Ryon nodded once. "It means the South cannot stand still. Not anymore."

Elara placed both palms flat on the table. "He won't go alone."

Kael studied her with weary eyes. "You would follow him into that?"

"I already have," she said. "And I will again."

Ryon turned to her. For a heartbeat, the noise of the hall fell away—the fire, the whispers, the clink of armor. There was only her gaze, steady and unwavering, the one light that refused to bend before the dark. He wanted to tell her she didn't have to. That she'd already lost enough. But the words withered in his throat.

Because she did have to. Because she was the only one who could keep him from drowning in what he'd become.

Kael sighed. "Then so be it. But know this, Ryon: the moment you cross north of the Ember Line, you will no longer be warlock of the South. You will be exile. To succeed, you must burn even your name."

"I already did," Ryon said. "The night the Veil rose."

The old sorcerer looked away, perhaps to hide the grief that stirred behind his eyes. Then, with deliberate care, he reached into his robe and drew out a shard of obsidian wrapped in silver thread. It pulsed faintly, like a heart refusing to die.

"This," Kael said, "is one of the Heart Fragments. What remains of the founder Lysera. I kept it hidden when the temples fell."

The shard's surface shimmered, revealing flashes—ancient faces, screaming skies, a city swallowed in flame. Ryon felt his own heartbeat echo inside the stone.

He reached out. The moment his fingers brushed it, heat seared up his arm, sharp and alive. Memories that weren't his flooded him: Lysera's voice chanting beside a gate of burning glass, seven figures standing in a ring, their blood dripping into molten stone. Then the vision snapped, leaving only silence.

Ryon staggered back, breath ragged. "It's alive."

Kael nodded grimly. "Each heart is. Each remembers its death. You will need all seven to close the wound. And you will need to survive long enough to bring them together."

Ryon clenched his fist. "Where are they?"

Kael's eyes dimmed. "The second sleeps beneath the Cathedral of Bone, where the priests of the North guard it like a god's rib. The third lies in the ruins of the old Ember Citadel—buried under a thousand tons of black glass. The fourth…" His voice faltered. "The fourth was taken by the Crimson Host. You know what that means."

Ryon did. The Host didn't return what it took.

Elara spoke quietly. "Then that's where we start."

Tren scoffed from the far end of the table. "You'll never make it through the Host's lands alive. Not with your army in ruins."

"Then I won't take an army," Ryon said. "Just those who choose to follow."

Kael rose unsteadily, his staff ringing against the stone. "Then you will have my blessing, though I fear it may not be enough." He turned to the others. "Go, all of you. Decide if you will stand behind him, or hide behind your fear. Either way, the fire has been called."

One by one, the council began to disperse. Some muttered prayers, others walked in silence. Tren lingered longest, eyes narrowing at Ryon. "You think the Veil can be closed. I think you'll tear it wider."

Ryon met his gaze without flinching. "Then pray you're wrong."

When the warlock finally left, only Ryon, Elara, and Kael remained.

The old man's strength was fading; he leaned heavier on his staff than before. He looked at Ryon one last time, his expression carved from sorrow. "If the serpent calls you again, listen carefully. It was born from our sin. But sometimes, sin remembers the way home."

Then he turned and left, the echo of his staff like a metronome counting down the end of an age.

Elara approached Ryon slowly. "When do we leave?"

"Dawn," he said. "Before the council can change its mind."

She nodded, brushing soot from his sleeve. "You didn't tell them everything."

He looked at her. "Would you have me?"

"No," she said. "But I'd have you tell me."

He hesitated, then whispered, "The serpent didn't just show me the past. It showed me what happens if we fail."

Her voice barely rose above the crackling fire. "Tell me."

"The South doesn't burn," he said. "It freezes. The Veil spreads north, west, east—until even the sun forgets us. And standing at its heart…" He stopped.

Elara's hand found his. "Who?"

"You."

The word struck like steel.

Her eyes widened. "Me?"

"You're bound to it somehow. The serpent called you the 'Eighth Heart.' I don't know what that means yet."

Silence deepened between them. The torches dimmed, as if the air itself held its breath.

Finally, Elara whispered, "Then you'll have to keep me alive long enough to find out."

He smiled faintly, but there was no mirth in it. "That's the plan."

Outside, the night was breaking. Pale fire rolled along the horizon—light without warmth. The Veil's glow. Ryon stepped toward the open archway and watched it rise, devouring the stars one by one.

Elara stood beside him. "You think they'll follow?"

"They always follow fire," he said. "Even when it burns them."

She looked at him then, really looked—the man beneath the myth, the warlock beneath the armor, the boy who once believed he could save everyone. "And what if it burns you?"

Ryon didn't answer. His hand rested on the obsidian shard at his belt. The pulse within it matched his own.

Somewhere far to the north, a horn sounded—a long, mournful call. War had already begun again.

Ryon's jaw tightened. "Then let it burn me last."

He turned from the hall, his shadow stretching long against the embers. Elara followed, and the torches bowed low as they passed, their flames bending toward him as though recognizing their master.

The Gathering of Embers had ended.

The War of Hearts had begun.