The being’s wings filled the chamber.
They were not wings of feather or leather, but living flame—great sheets of gold and white fire stretching above the molten moat. Each slow movement sent waves of heat across the platform.
Behind the towering guardian, the Shard of Everlasting Life burned with its own inner light.
The shard stood only four feet high, yet it seemed larger than everything around it. Veins of white radiance shifted within the crystal, branching and joining like lightning trapped beneath glass. At times the light became red. At others, it cooled to a blue so pale it was almost colorless.
The guardian stood four times its height.
His golden armor appeared fused to his body. Horns swept backward from a face that carried the stern beauty of a celestial and the unmistakable severity of a dragon. Beneath the flames surrounding him, Kaylor glimpsed scales.
Not dragonborn scales.
Something older.
The Herald looked down upon the six heroes.
“Who dares approach the Shard of Everlasting Life?”
His voice crossed the chamber like thunder beneath the earth.
The lava surrounding the platform surged in answer.
Kaylor stepped forward.
His silver-white scales reflected the shard’s changing light. He held his sword low, neither offering attack nor pretending he was unarmed.
“I am Kaylor.”
The Herald studied him.
The fire around his eyes narrowed.
“Your name is carved upon no living oath.”
“Then I will carve it again.”
A faint reaction moved across the Herald’s face.
Recognition, perhaps.
Or surprise.
Kaylor continued.
“We came for the shard.”
The fire in the chamber rose.
Fendor shifted his grip on the bow. Isamu settled into a balanced stance beside him. Grazim raised his shield slightly, while Hexen prepared to call upon one of the beasts sleeping within his blood.
Violet fire curled around Nethnarel’s hands.
The Herald noticed all of it.
“You came to steal what I guard.”
“We came to protect a village,” Kaylor said.
“Many thieves name their greed protection.”
“We are representatives of Grom the Everlasting,” Grazim added.
The effect was immediate.
The Herald’s wings snapped outward.
Fire rolled across the ceiling.
“Grom.”
The name emerged like a curse.
The shard flared red.
Grazim felt the mistake before the Herald spoke again.
“You carry the words of that corrupted thing into my keeping and expect me to surrender what he covets?”
“He claims the shard belongs to him,” said Kaylor.
“He lies.”
The answer held no hesitation.
The Herald stepped around the crystal.
Each footfall left molten prints upon the dark tiles.
“I am the guardian of this shard. I watched kingdoms rise around it and empires murder one another for rumors of its power. I have denied dragons, deathless kings, and those who called themselves gods.”
His gaze settled upon Grazim.
“Why should I yield it to six dead heroes who do not even remember how they failed?”
Grazim’s symbol grew warm against his chest.
The Herald knew them too.
“You recognize us,” he said.
“I recognize what remains.”
“Then tell us who we were.”
“No.”
The reply came as quickly as Grom’s had.
Nethnarel gave a humorless laugh.
“Everyone remembers us. No one wishes to explain.”
The Herald turned toward her.
The flames along his wings changed from gold to violet.
For an instant, their color matched the magic around Nethnarel’s fingers.
“You carried a dangerous fire once.”
Nethnarel’s expression hardened.
“I still do.”
“No. What burns within you now is an ember wandering through a storm.”
The wild magic around her hands twisted.
One flame became five. The five became a ring of small burning eyes. Nethnarel closed her fists, and they vanished.
“An ember can still burn,” she said.
The Herald looked away.
“Not brightly enough to possess the shard.”
Kaylor took another step.
“Why do you believe Grom is unworthy?”
“I do not believe it. I know it.”
The Herald gestured toward the crystal.
“The Shard of Everlasting Life does not grant life as mortals understand it. It preserves. It extends. It strengthens that which refuses to end.”
His eyes burned brighter.
“In worthy hands, it can save a people from extinction. In corrupt hands, it can make suffering eternal.”
Hexen looked toward the shard.
The light inside it no longer appeared beautiful.
“What would Grom become if he possessed it?”
The Herald’s gaze moved to him.
“What he has always desired to become.”
“Which is?”
“Impossible to kill.”
Silence settled over the platform.
Beyond the moat, the lava shifted in slow currents. The labyrinth seemed to listen from behind the enormous doors.
Fendor lowered his bow by an inch.
“We should not give it to him.”
Kaylor nodded.
“No.”
Grazim looked around the group.
Their bargain had brought them through the labyrinth. Wallowdale had been spared for one week because they had promised to return Grom’s prize.
Breaking that promise might condemn the village.
Keeping it might create something worse.
“The people below the mountain are starving,” Grazim said. “Grom has placed their lives against our obedience.”
The Herald showed no sympathy.
“Then Grom has made slaves of you.”
“He will destroy them if we return without the shard.”
“He may destroy them if you return with it.”
Grazim knew that was true.
Grom’s promise had been precise, but his hunger had been impossible to miss. A creature willing to cover a valley in unnatural winter could not be trusted merely because it had spoken terms.
“We awakened upon a monument with no memories,” Grazim said. “We fought our way down the mountain. We found villagers chained in mines and freed them. That is all I know about who we are.”
The Herald watched him.
“We did not come here for power,” Grazim continued. “We came because people will die if we do nothing.”
“Then do something other than serve Grom.”
“That is why we are speaking instead of fighting you.”
The Herald’s flames became still.
Kaylor felt the dragon presence within him more clearly now.
The guardian was not dragonborn, but some ancient draconic essence lived within his celestial form. It recognized Kaylor’s blood, just as Kaylor’s blood recognized him.
Kaylor lowered his sword completely.
“There is a village of dragonborn among those threatened by Grom’s servants.”
This was not precisely true.
Wallowdale held humans, elves, and others. But beyond it, according to the captives they had freed, dragonborn settlements had been raided and their people taken north.
The Herald’s gaze sharpened.
“Speak truth.”
Kaylor did.
“Not only dragonborn. An entire valley. Families. Children. People who survived years beneath orc rule and were freed only days ago. Grom’s winter has trapped them. He offers food and safety in return for the shard.”
“And you accepted.”
“We accepted time.”
“Time purchased with a promise you should never have made.”
Kaylor’s jaw tightened.
“Perhaps.”
The admission surprised the others.
It surprised the Herald most of all.
Kaylor stepped closer to the shard.
“We awoke without memories. We do not know which enemies lie to us or which old allies might betray us. We had minutes to choose between an uncertain bargain and a village freezing to death.”
He looked up into the Herald’s burning eyes.
“I will answer for that choice. But I will not abandon those people because an immortal guardian finds our judgment imperfect.”
The Herald’s wings rose.
“You speak as if your defiance grants worthiness.”
“No.”
Kaylor placed his sword upon the tiles between them.
“What I do next will decide that.”
The Herald looked at the surrendered weapon.
The shard changed from red to white.
Behind Kaylor, Fendor quietly eased the tension from his bowstring. Grazim lowered his shield. Isamu’s hands opened.
Only Nethnarel kept her magic ready.
The Herald noticed.
She smiled thinly.
“I have been reasonable before. It did not suit me.”
The guardian returned his attention to Kaylor.
“You would take the shard from this place.”
“Yes.”
“To deliver it to Grom.”
“No.”
Grazim looked at Kaylor.
Neither had decided that aloud.
Kaylor continued before anyone could interrupt.
“You will carry it.”
The Herald’s flames shifted.
Hexen understood first.
“You do not have to surrender the shard,” he said. “Come with us.”
The Herald looked from Kaylor to Hexen.
Hexen stepped nearer.
“We return to Grom together. You keep the shard. You hear his claim. You see the village and what his servants have done.”
“And then?”
“Then you decide whether he should have it.”
Nethnarel glanced toward Hexen.
“That decision appears to have already been made.”
“Then he can explain it to Grom directly.”
The Herald studied them.
The chamber remained unbearably hot, yet the threat of immediate violence had receded.
“Grom will attack,” he said.
“Probably,” Fendor replied.
“Lady Frost stands beside him,” Grazim added. “So does one called Dark Voice.”
The Herald’s gaze moved to Nethnarel.
Her violet fire returned in a low halo around her horns.
“Dark Voice,” he repeated.
Nethnarel’s smile disappeared.
“You know it?”
“I know what wears that name.”
“What is it?”
The Herald did not answer.
Nethnarel sighed.
“Of course.”
Isamu stepped forward.
He had said little since the guardian appeared, but he had watched everything: the changes in the Herald’s fire, the way he placed himself between the heroes and the shard, the brief reactions whenever Grom or the endangered villagers were mentioned.
“You have guarded the shard here for ages,” Isamu said.
The Herald turned toward him.
“You have refused every creature that came to claim it.”
“Yes.”
“Then this place has protected the shard.”
“It has.”
“But it has also hidden you from what happens beyond these walls.”
The Herald’s fire darkened.
Isamu continued.
“Grom rules beneath a mountain. His allies freeze villages and enslave the living. If he truly seeks this shard, he will continue sending others. Eventually, someone will reach this chamber who does not stop to speak.”
“No thief who entered this place has defeated me.”
“Not yet.”
The words hung between them.
Isamu gestured toward the labyrinth behind the great doors.
“You know this prison. You know the shard. But you do not know the world as it is now.”
The Herald’s wings folded slowly.
“And you propose that I abandon my vigil.”
“No,” said Isamu. “Carry it with you.”
The plan was simple enough to sound impossible.
The Herald would not surrender the shard. The heroes would not steal it. Together, they would return to the frozen court and force Grom to reveal the truth of his claim.
If Grom attacked, the shard’s guardian would be there to oppose him.
If the Herald proved no better than Grom, the two powers might weaken one another long enough for the heroes to survive.
Nethnarel considered the plan from several angles.
It was dangerous.
Uncertain.
Dependent upon at least two ancient beings behaving exactly as expected.
She approved.
“The scroll can transport us all,” she said.
The Herald looked at her.
“You possess a way out of the labyrinth?”
“Lady Frost gave us a scroll.”
The fire around him surged once more.
“You carried the magic of Grom’s consort into this chamber?”
“It was either that or walk.”
The Herald’s gaze drifted toward the sealed doors.
“The labyrinth does not permit walking out.”
“Then the scroll was a wise precaution.”
“Or another chain.”
Nethnarel removed the scroll without opening it.
Blue symbols moved across the parchment beneath her fingers.
“I can read the magic. It will take those gathered around me to a named location.”
“Can it return me here?”
Nethnarel hesitated.
“One use.”
The Herald looked toward the shard.
If he left, the labyrinth would remain empty.
If he traveled with them, there might be no path back.
Grazim understood the weight of the choice.
“We will help you return the shard,” he said.
“How?”
“We do not know yet.”
The Herald’s eyes burned.
“That is not reassuring.”
“It is honest.”
For the first time, the great guardian almost smiled.
The expression lasted only a moment.
He turned toward the crystal.
The fire around his hands reached into it without touching the surface. The shard lifted from its stone cradle.
Light flooded the chamber.
Each hero saw something different within it.
Grazim saw a field of fallen soldiers rising to their feet.
Kaylor saw an ancient dragon opening its eyes beneath a ruined city.
Hexen saw a forest preserved forever at the height of summer—beautiful, motionless, and utterly dead.
Fendor saw an arrow hanging in flight, never reaching its target.
Nethnarel saw a flame that could burn without consuming anything, trapped forever in the instant before it changed.
Isamu saw a man held between one heartbeat and the next, unable to live and unable to die.
The visions vanished.
The shard floated beside the Herald.
“I will accompany you,” he said.
No one moved.
The guardian looked down at them.
“Do not mistake agreement for trust.”
“We rarely do,” said Nethnarel.
“If Grom has deceived you, I will oppose him.”
“Good,” said Kaylor.
“If you attempt to take the shard, I will destroy you.”
“Less good,” Nethnarel said.
“And if your scroll cannot return me—”
“We will find another way,” Grazim said.
The Herald’s burning gaze lingered upon him.
“You speak promises easily.”
“No. I speak them carefully.”
The Herald accepted that.
The Heroes of the New Beginning rested upon the island beneath his watch.
The Herald reduced the heat around the central platform, allowing them to recover without being cooked alive. He did not sleep. He stood beside the shard while the heroes ate the last of their provisions, repaired armor, and bound their remaining wounds.
Fendor counted his arrows.
“Seven.”
“Is that enough?” Hexen asked.
“It will have to be.”
Hexen leaned back against a dark stone and closed his eyes.
His face still looked human, but the shadows cast by the Herald’s flames shifted across him in the forms of beasts—a bear, a wolf, a great cat, and something winged.
Kaylor sat nearby with his blue-and-silver shield resting against one knee. The dragon emblem upon it had been cracked by the labyrinth, though the shape remained visible.
The Herald studied it.
“You carried another shield once.”
Kaylor looked up.
“What happened to it?”
“It broke.”
“How?”
“You placed it between the world and something the world could not survive.”
Kaylor waited for more.
None came.
Across the platform, Fendor restrung his dark bow. His pale hair had been singed near one temple, and several sections of his black armor were scorched.
The Herald watched him next.
“You were more patient before.”
Fendor did not stop working.
“I have had a difficult week.”
Isamu sat apart from the others, breathing slowly. His hood and leather wrappings had been damaged, but he remained composed.
“You remember discipline,” the Herald said.
“I remember its shape.”
“And what lies beneath it?”
Isamu opened his eyes.
“Something that still requires discipline.”
The Herald turned to Nethnarel.
She sat cross-legged with the teleportation scroll resting across her knees. The firelit appearance from the old frame seemed almost prophetic now: red skin, pale hair, curved horns, and living flame reflected across dark clothing.
“You should not be able to read that scroll.”
Nethnarel glanced up.
“Yet I can.”
“You should not be able to shape half the magic I have seen you use.”
“Yet I do.”
“Do you never wonder why?”
“Constantly. I find wondering less useful than surviving.”
The Herald’s gaze remained upon her.
“What happens when your power returns completely?”
Nethnarel looked back at the moving symbols.
“Something interesting.”
The answer did not comfort him.
Grazim took the final watch.
The Herald stood beside him at the edge of the molten moat.
For a long time, neither spoke.
At last Grazim asked, “Which god do I serve?”
The Herald looked at the symbol hanging over his armor.
“You ask me to name the voice within your own soul?”
“I ask because the voice is faint.”
“Perhaps your god is dead.”
The same accusation had been spoken through the Queen’s wolf.
Grazim tightened his hand around the emblem.
“Gods do not die easily.”
“Neither did you.”
Grazim looked toward him.
The Herald’s face offered nothing more.
When the others had recovered, Nethnarel opened Lady Frost’s scroll.
Blue fire moved across her hands.
“Gather close.”
The Herald floated beside the shard. The crystal’s light bent around his immense form.
Fendor stood at Nethnarel’s left. Isamu took the other side. Hexen and Grazim joined them, while Kaylor faced the Herald.
“We begin by speaking,” Kaylor said.
“Grom may not allow it,” Grazim replied.
“Then we finish another way.”
Nethnarel examined the spell woven through the parchment.
It would take everyone within the circle she formed.
She could alter that circle.
She could exclude the Herald at the final moment, leaving him and the shard behind. The thought came quickly and was gone just as quickly.
Without the shard, their return accomplished nothing.
Without the Herald, Grom might take it the moment they arrived.
Nethnarel let the spell remain as written.
“Ready?”
“No,” said Fendor.
“Excellent.”
She spoke Wallowdale’s name.
The scroll disintegrated.
Blue fire surrounded the heroes. Violet sparks erupted from Nethnarel and twisted through the teleportation magic. The molten chamber dissolved into fragments.
For one terrible instant, they passed through a place between places.
Grazim saw innumerable roads extending through darkness.
Hexen heard animals calling from worlds he had never visited.
Fendor glimpsed arrows fired in battles that had not yet occurred.
Isamu felt every possible motion his body might make.
Kaylor saw a vast draconic eye open beneath the world.
Nethnarel heard Dark Voice laughing.
Then reality returned.
Cold struck them.
They appeared in the frozen garden before Grom’s throne.
Crystal trees rose around them. Ice pixies scattered from the sudden burst of magic. Lady Frost turned, sword already in hand.
Dark Voice stood beside the throne.
Its hood tilted toward Nethnarel.
She felt its attention like cold fingers at the back of her mind.
Grom rose.
Both of his heads stared at the floating crystal beside the Herald.
Hunger transformed his faces.
“You returned.”
His two voices merged into one.
“The shard.”
The Heroes of the New Beginning arranged themselves without discussion.
Grazim beside Kaylor.
Fendor watching the left.
Isamu waiting for the opening.
Hexen ready to become the beast.
Nethnarel facing Dark Voice.
The same formation in which they had once died.
Grom extended both hands.
“Give me the Shard of Everlasting Life.”
The Herald’s fire changed.
Until that moment, his flames had burned gold and white. Now they became a fierce blue, brighter than the frozen garden and hotter than the volcanic chamber they had left behind.
The crystal flowers began to melt.
Lady Frost stepped between Grom and the newcomers.
Dark Voice’s robes stirred though there was no wind.
The Herald floated forward.
The shard remained beside him.
“You shall never possess it.”
His voice broke crystals across the garden.
Grom’s greedy expression vanished.
One head snarled.
The other whispered, “You.”
The Herald’s wings opened.
Fire filled the court.
“Your corruption ends here, Everlasting One.”
Grom roared.
Lady Frost raised her sword.
The ice pixies loosed their arrows.
Dark Voice stretched one black-gloved hand toward Nethnarel.
And between fire and winter, the first battle for the Shard of Everlasting Life began.