The morning came late to the Southern Plains.

A haze of pale sunlight struggled through the smoke that still drifted across the battlefield, washing the ruins in a sickly gold. The wind had changed; it no longer carried the smell of death, only the bitter tang of burnt metal and cold ash.

Ryon awoke to the weight of silence.

He lay in the tent the healers had raised over what was once the command hill, a structure of torn canvas and stitched light. His body felt heavy — every limb a memory of pain. The world swayed when he tried to move. His head throbbed with the dull ache of overdrawn magic. He had been unconscious for nearly a day, though it felt longer — as if the battle still echoed somewhere in the marrow of his bones.

When he opened his eyes, Kaela was there.

She sat beside him, elbows resting on her knees, her healer's robes stained and frayed. Her hair was tied back in a loose knot, strands of gold tangled against her neck. She had not slept.

"Don't sit up," she said softly when he stirred. "You'll tear the sutures."

Ryon blinked, vision swimming into focus. The interior of the tent glowed faintly with the light of containment wards — faint runes scrawled across the canvas walls, flickering with residual magic. A dozen other wounded soldiers lay nearby, each one connected to glowing thread-like charms that pulsed in rhythm with their breath.

"How long?" he asked hoarsely.

"Twenty-seven hours," Kaela said without looking up. "You burned through most of your essence. The sigils nearly consumed your right arm."

He glanced down. His arm was wrapped in dark silk bandages that shimmered faintly — containment seals. Beneath them, he could feel the slow throb of the runes, still alive, still feeding.

"I'm still breathing," he muttered.

"Barely."

Her voice was sharper than before.

Ryon turned his head to look at her. "You're angry."

"I should be," she said. "You should be dead."

Her eyes lifted, meeting his — fierce, wet with exhaustion. "You think the South needs a martyr? It needs a leader. One who doesn't throw himself into the fire every time he's cornered."

He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. "The North would've taken the field if I hadn't."

"Maybe. Or maybe you just didn't trust anyone else to stand in your place."

Her words lingered like a wound.

For a moment, neither spoke. Outside, the murmur of distant movement rippled through the air — soldiers clearing bodies, gathering armor, rebuilding makeshift barricades. The war had not ended. It had simply paused to breathe.

Ryon's voice broke the silence. "What of the council?"

Kaela hesitated. "They're waiting for you."

"Already?"

"They convened at dawn." She stood, gathering her satchel and gloves. "They're restless. Some call it a victory. Others… are calling it a massacre."

He frowned. "And what do you call it?"

Kaela paused at the tent's entrance. "Necessary. But not clean."

Then she was gone.

By the time Ryon stepped outside, the sun had clawed its way above the horizon. The Southern camp stretched across the blackened field — a patchwork of tents, banners, and wounded men. The once-green plains were now streaked with ash and crimson mud. The air was heavy with murmurs — whispers of awe, fear, loyalty, doubt.

As he walked, soldiers turned to watch. Some saluted. Some averted their eyes.

They all knew what he had done.

Ryon passed through the healer's row, through the smoldering remains of siege engines, until he reached the central pavilion. The Southern Council's banners hung limp in the weak light — black and gold, the sigil of the twin dragons barely visible through the soot.

Two sentries saluted as he approached, their expressions a mixture of reverence and unease. He could feel it in the air — the tension that follows power unrestrained.

Inside, the council waited.

The pavilion was circular, its walls reinforced with rune-scribed cloth. Around a carved table sat the lords and commanders of the South — nobles draped in dust-stained finery, their eyes sharp and weary.

Lord Malrec, the oldest among them, rose first. His silver hair caught the light as he inclined his head. "Warlock," he said carefully. "We are relieved to see you alive."

Ryon's gaze swept the room. "Relieved? That's not the word I expected."

A few shifted uncomfortably.

Malrec cleared his throat. "Your… display on the field has become the talk of every camp. The dead rose, the storm obeyed. You saved the South — for now."

"But?" Ryon said.

The lord's eyes flickered. "But at what cost?"

Another voice — sharper, younger. Lady Veyra of the Western Pass leaned forward, her black armor polished, her lips curled into a thin smile. "Half the plains are uninhabitable now. The magic residue will kill crops for a decade. Rivers run red with residual essence. And our allies in the Free Marches are questioning whether they've allied with a man or a demon."

The words hung heavy.

Ryon said nothing.

Malrec's hands trembled slightly as he spoke again. "We do not question your strength, Lord Warlock. But there are those who fear what it means to wield such power unchecked. They remember the old prophecy — that the fire that saves the South will one day consume it."

Ryon's jaw tightened. "Prophecies are for the weak."

Veyra smirked. "So says the man who burns the sky to win a war."

The temperature in the room dropped.

A faint pulse of energy rippled through the air — subtle, but unmistakable. Every candle flickered at once. Ryon's eyes lifted, faintly glowing.

"I burn only what must be burned," he said quietly. "If that frightens you, perhaps you should find another to fight your wars."

The room went silent.

Then, slowly, Malrec exhaled. "No one doubts your loyalty, Ryon. But the council must answer to the people. The cities demand assurance. They must know the Warlock still serves the South — not himself."

Ryon turned away. "I serve only survival."

"Then prove it," Veyra said.

He looked back at her.

"There are rumors," she continued, "of a spy among us. Someone rebuilt the North's supply chain after we destroyed it. Someone fed them our troop movements. You claim to have sensed betrayal before the attack — now show us you were right."

The challenge was clear.

Ryon's eyes narrowed. "You want proof?"

"Yes," she said, leaning back. "Find your traitor. Before your fire finds us first."

That night, the camp was quiet again. Too quiet.

Ryon stood at the edge of the plains, overlooking the ruins of the battlefield. The stars above were pale, half-hidden by smoke. His cloak fluttered gently in the wind, the faint ember-light of his sigils pulsing beneath it.

He could still feel her gaze — the one from the ridge. The silver-cloaked figure who had watched as he burned the North.

She wasn't from the North. He knew that much. Her magic had felt different — smooth, ancient, deliberate. Like silk over a blade.

A whisper in the dark. "You're losing yourself, Warlock."

Ryon turned sharply.

The figure stepped from the shadows — Kaela, wrapped in her healer's cloak, eyes rimmed with fatigue. But the voice that had spoken hadn't been hers.

He frowned. "Who said that?"

Kaela blinked. "What?"

Ryon looked past her, scanning the shadows. Nothing. Just the wind.

For a moment, the air seemed to twist — as if something unseen had brushed against reality, a ripple in the fabric of the night. His sigils flared faintly in response, reacting to an energy not his own.

Kaela's brow furrowed. "You felt that too."

"Yes," he murmured. "She's still here."

"Who?"

"The woman on the ridge."

Kaela's expression changed — from confusion to alarm. "Ryon, no one saw anyone there. You were barely standing when you—"

"I saw her," he said firmly. "Silver cloak. Eyes like frost. Watching me."

Kaela hesitated, then exhaled. "If she's real, then she's not from the North."

"I know."

"Then who?"

Ryon's gaze drifted toward the horizon. "That's what I intend to find out."

Hours later, he found himself back in the command tent, the map of the Southern territories sprawled before him. The candlelight cast long shadows across the inked lines — borders drawn in blood, rivers turned red with magic.

His hands rested on the table, trembling faintly. His body still ached from the drain, but his mind refused to rest.

Kaela entered quietly, carrying a basin of water. "You should sleep."

He didn't look up. "Can't."

"You'll collapse again."

"Then I'll stand while falling."

Her lips pressed tight. She set the basin down and moved closer. For a long time, neither spoke. Only the soft rustle of the tent and the crackle of distant fire filled the air.

Finally, Kaela said, "When you burn, Ryon… do you ever feel like you're still yourself?"

He glanced at her, startled by the question.

"I mean," she continued, "when the fire takes you — when your magic takes control — do you remember who you are?"

His answer came slowly. "Sometimes. Other times… I remember only what I've lost."

Kaela nodded faintly. "Then maybe that's the real price."

He didn't reply.

Instead, he reached for the map again — his fingers tracing the inked roads leading northward, toward the frozen passes. His expression hardened.

"The war's changing," he said quietly. "And we're not fighting just men anymore."

Kaela looked at him. "Then what are we fighting?"

He lifted his eyes. "Something older."

Outside, thunder rolled across the distant hills — faint, but deliberate.

And somewhere beyond that storm, in a valley untouched by war, the woman in the silver cloak stood before a circle of ancient stones. Her hand brushed one of them, and light bled from her fingertips, tracing a symbol older than kingdoms.

"The fire has woken," she whispered. "The South will burn again — and this time, the ashes will not rise."

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