Chapter 173: The Call of the Scar

The ground did not rumble.

It shuddered.

A slow, deliberate tremor, like a breath drawn by something ancient. Something waiting.

From the cliffs surrounding the Spire, a thin red mist began to rise—light as fog, but far more deliberate. It drifted, coiled, and listened. No birds cried. No wolves howled.

It was the quiet of something holding its scream.

Serena stood on the southern edge, overlooking the plains that stretched toward the western fault. The sky above was no longer blue. It was pale gold, sickly and tense, as though stained by fire that hadn’t reached the ground yet.

Behind her, the camp held still.

The child sat beneath the central archway, wrapped in a silken shawl Mira had stitched. It didn’t speak. It hadn’t since the vision.

But its silver eyes never left Serena.

Not once.

“They’re coming,” Caine whispered as he stepped beside her.

Serena’s jaw tightened. “Who?”

“Not the Gate-born. Not yet. But the ones who remember what the Red Scar was.”

She turned to him slowly. “The ones Kiva mentioned?”

He nodded. “Not all who were taken by the first Gate were consumed. Some… changed. Survived. Lingered.”

“And now they’ve seen the fire returning,” Serena murmured.

Caine exhaled. “They think it belongs to them.”

Serena didn’t reply.

Instead, she lowered her gaze to her trembling hands.

They had started to burn again—not visibly, not in flame—but in heat. Her skin was warm to the touch, even at rest. The same signs her mother had shown, just before the end.

Elias approached behind them, silent as a shadow.

“She’s changing,” Caine said to him without looking. “Faster than we anticipated.”

Elias stepped closer, brushing his fingers against Serena’s.

Her skin was too warm. Her pulse—off rhythm.

“I can handle it,” she said.

“I know you want to,” Elias replied. “But handling and surviving are not the same.”

That night, she burned in her sleep.

The fire didn’t wake her, but it woke Elias.

He sat up beside her, watching as tendrils of light curled along her arms, seeping from her palms and wrists like glowing threads. Her breath was labored. Her brows furrowed.

Then she whispered in her sleep—

“Don’t leave me in the tree…”

Elias froze.

She turned, restless.

“Don’t burn me for them.”

Her voice was younger in that moment. Vulnerable. Like a child’s.

And when she opened her eyes, they were gold.

She didn’t speak for a while.

Not until morning light broke through the sky, not until the rest of the camp rose and began its motions.

She and Elias sat alone near the riverbank at the base of the Spire. The water was cold, clear—unchanged by the magic above. A small mercy.

“I saw something,” she said finally.

Elias looked at her, nodding once.

“The tree from the vision. I was inside it. Not just near it—inside. Like it had wrapped itself around me. And I was… choosing.”

“Choosing what?”

“Who would burn,” she said.

Elias didn’t flinch, but his chest rose once, slowly.

“Do you think it was memory or prophecy?”

“I think it was both.”

As the camp prepared for movement—packing up supplies, tightening defenses, scanning the skies—Lyra and Mira returned from their recon patrols with narrowed eyes.

“There’s someone at the ridge,” Lyra said. “Not a threat. Yet.”

“Not a Gate-born?” Kael asked.

Mira shook her head. “No. Just... wrong. Not human anymore.”

Serena and Elias arrived quickly. “Describe him.”

“Pale skin. Black cloak. No shadow.”

Serena’s eyes narrowed. “No shadow?”

“No voice either,” Mira said. “But he’s standing still. Like he’s waiting.”

Serena looked to Kiva, who had been watching silently.

Kiva nodded once. “I know who that is.”

“Who?”

“His name was Theren. He was taken with me. He didn’t come back the same.”

They rode out at noon.

Serena, Elias, Kiva, Lyra, and Mira—all mounted, all alert. The child rode with Caine in a closed carriage, shielded by runes. Kael led a flanking patrol, eyes sharp.

The mist deepened the closer they got to the ridge. It clung to the trees. It filled the mouths of the rocks. The red tint grew darker—like blood diluted in water, thickening with each mile.

And then, at the edge of a shattered stone plateau, they saw him.

Thereon.

He stood in silence, facing north. His robes were torn but clean. His hands hung at his sides. His skin was unnaturally smooth—no blemishes, no pores.

Serena dismounted and stepped forward.

He did not turn.

Kiva approached beside her.

“He was one of us,” she whispered. “Before the Scar claimed him.”

Serena lifted her chin. “Theren.”

He turned at her voice—and the group stilled.

Because his eyes were not silver.

They were mirror-like. Reflective. Not glowing—but showing.

In them, Serena saw herself.

And then, in her own voice—echoed from his lips—he said:

“You left me.”

The others drew weapons instinctively.

Elias stepped in front of Serena, sword half-drawn.

But Theren didn’t move.

Serena stepped around Elias, gently pushing his hand down.

She walked forward slowly. “I didn’t know you were alive.”

Theren tilted his head, still eerily calm. “You did. Somewhere, in your flame. You remembered me in the roots of the tree.”

Her breath caught.

“Your fire burns because of what it consumed. You call it power. But it’s a burial ground.”

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“To warn you.”

“About?”

“The Gate isn’t done. It’s only changed hands.”

As they rode back to camp, the words stuck in Serena’s chest.

Changed hands.

That meant the Gate was still active—not closed, not dead, but relocated. Or worse… reborn.

That night, Elias found her once more on the Spire’s edge, staring into the stars.

He sat beside her.

“Do you think you’re the last Gate?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I think I’m the first of something else.”

Elias reached for her hand.

“Whatever you become,” he said, “don’t do it alone.”

She leaned into him, eyes burning—not with fire, but tears.

“I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“You’re Serena Halros. And you’re still here.”

And for a moment, she let herself cry.

No fire.

No fury.

Just a girl, wrapped in something far too big, trying to carry a world that was never kind.