CHAPTER 1513: STORY 1513: EMBERS OF THE UNBORN

The battlefield smoldered in eerie quiet, ash drifting like snow through the trees. Where moments ago the Crimson Host had thundered, now only dust and silence remained. Yet in the stillness, that ember within the shard pulsed—a malignant heartbeat refusing to die.

Kael leaned on his sword, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. His blood dripped onto the dirt, each drop absorbed instantly by the ground as though the earth itself were thirsting. He glared at the faint glow within the shard, jaw clenched.

“It should be over,” he muttered, voice thick with fury and exhaustion. “Why won’t it end?”

Elara knelt, her hands scorched raw from her last spell. The fire in her veins flickered dangerously close to going out. Her gaze was fixed on the ember, her face pale beneath streaks of soot and blood. “Because it was never alive to begin with. You can’t kill what was never born.”

The words—echoing the whisper from the shard—hung in the air like a curse.

The ember stirred, glowing brighter. From its fractured shell seeped thin streams of crimson threads, weaving themselves into the soil. The ground quivered. Roots blackened. The corpses that had crumbled into ash began to twitch, as if the ember sought to reclaim them, remake them.

“No...” Elara whispered, staggering to her feet. “It’s not raising an army this time. It’s planting itself.”

Kael’s stomach dropped as realization struck. The shard wasn’t a weapon—it was a seed.

The earth split beneath them, fissures glowing red as though veins of fire ran under the forest. From the cracks emerged twisted sprouts of bone and flesh, vines tipped with teeth, flowers blooming with screaming faces. The land itself was birthing horrors.

Kael raised his blade, though his arm trembled with every movement. “Then we cut it out before it roots too deep.”

Elara’s flames sputtered in her palms. “Kael... we can’t burn the world to stop it.”

The fissures widened, a shockwave tearing through the soil. Both were thrown back, tumbling across the ground. When Kael forced himself up, he saw it—a figure rising from the ember’s glow. Not fully formed, its body wreathed in molten shadow, its face veiled but its presence undeniable. It wasn’t a soldier, nor a knight. This was something older, vaster.

The Unborn.

Its voice rumbled across the clearing, layered and inhuman. “You strike shadows and call it victory. But I am the dawn that was denied. I am the birth that was stolen.”

Elara clutched Kael’s arm, her body trembling. “If it breaks free, Kael... there won’t be a world left to fight for.”

Kael’s eyes locked on the rising figure, every instinct screaming despair. Yet still, he planted his sword in the ground, forcing his battered body upright. “Then we make our stand here. If this is the dawn it promises, then we drown it in night.”

The Unborn stretched its malformed hand skyward, and the ashen dawn above dimmed as though the sun itself recoiled.

The true war was only beginning.