From Deadbeat noble to Top Rank Swordsman-Chapter 89: The Fifth Seal

They reached the ridge by twilight.

No one spoke of what they’d seen. Not the seals. Not the shadowless man. Not the voice that had laughed inside their heads. Their words had begun to slip even before they dismounted—names half-remembered, orders stumbled, sentences trailing into nothing. So they held silence, clinging to it like a rope through fog.

Only Leon remained steady.

He mapped their camp with deliberate precision, checking the perimeter twice before lighting a single flame. The riders huddled together, stripped of pretense and strength. Some prayed. Others stared at their hands as if trying to recall what fingers were for.

Elena sat alone near the stream.

She had not spoken since the seal.

Her hands trembled in her lap, but her face held no fear. Just stillness. Like the silence between a falling spark and the blaze.

Leon approached with slow steps, sword still buckled at his side.

"You need rest."

She looked up. Her eyes no longer glowed—but something beneath them flickered.

"What if resting makes me forget who I am?"

Leon knelt beside her. "Then I’ll remind you. Every time."

She didn’t smile, but she didn’t look away either.

Behind them, Tomas stood watch with a blade that had once belonged to his brother. He hadn’t spoken since dusk. But he hadn’t sat down either.

The fire crackled low.

Then a voice broke the hush.

Alden.

He was near the edge of camp, pointing toward the horizon.

"Is that... fire?"

Leon stood sharply.

The others joined him, eyes scanning the distant ridge. And there—just beyond the broken trees and mist—rose a thin plume of smoke. Bright. Controlled. But it didn’t look natural.

Elena narrowed her eyes. "That’s not wildfire. That’s a signal flame."

Tomas stepped forward. "Another group? Survivors?"

Leon shook his head. "That’s no survivor’s flame. That’s a marker. The fifth seal."

No one moved.

Then Elena stood. "Then what are we waiting for."

They packed in minutes.

No more hesitation. No more caution.

The fifth seal was calling.

They rode through the broken pines, silence stretching longer than the roads themselves. Night didn’t fall, It bent—slow and hesitant—like it feared what light might reveal. The trail grew narrower, the air hotter, the wind sharper.

By the time they reached the hill, every rider’s breath came shallow.

The flame was very much real.

It burned in the middle of a stone field—no trees, no brush, just scorched rock and iron soil. And in its centre stood a brazier the height of three men, burning with blue fire.

Elena dismounted first.

Leon followed, his gaze fixed on the brazier. No monolith this time. No illusions. Just the flame.

Then something rose from it.

A figure.

Cloaked in fire, but not consumed by it.

It turned.

And it had her face.

Not Elena’s now.

Elena before the Hollow.

Younger.

Cleaner.

The fire-Elena smiled.

And spoke with her voice.

"You left me behind."

The fifth seal has began.

And so did it’s judgement .

It had come to weigh what remained.

Leon drew his sword before he realised his hand had moved.

The fire-Elena didn’t flinch. She stepped down from the brazier like descending temple steps, her bare feet never quite touching the ground. Her smile was not cruel, but tender. Reproachful. Like a sister betrayed.

"You burned me away," she whispered.

Elena’s breath caught. "You’re not real."

"No. I’m the part you burned to survive."

The others didn’t approach. They couldn’t. The moment the figure stepped onto the blackened field, the ground rippled—heatless, but solid. A transparent barrier of light and memory. And only Elena could cross it.

Leon turned to her. "You don’t have to."

"I do." Her voice was steady, but her fingers flexed around the dagger at her waist. "Every seal takes something. I think this one... wants to give it back."

She stepped forward.

The ripple passed through her, and the blue fire turned white for an instant, then receded.

Inside the field, it was silent. Not quiet—silent. No breath. No beat. Even her footsteps made no sound. The fire-Elena waited, hands clasped in front of her, head tilted in a way that made her look painfully young.

"I was happy once," it said.

"I know."

"I remember the wind. I remember the books in your lap. I remember loving."

Elena didn’t blink. "I still do."

The fire-Elena tilted her head further. "No. You don’t . You remember and gather your might only to fuel your magic and your blade. That’s not love. That’s... kindling."

A gust of wind tore across the crater outside the field. Leon steadied Tomas and the others, but his eyes never left Elena.

Inside, the figure stepped closer. "You buried me when you became her. The mage. The sword-hand. The girl who never faltered."

Elena’s grip on the dagger tightened. "Because I had to."

"I know." The figure raised its hand—and the flame rose behind her, forming shapes. Memories.

A cottage door.

A silver ring.

A mother’s voice humming a lullaby.

Elena staggered. "Stop it."

"Why? You’ve already buried them. Let me show you what you lost when you chose vengeance."

"I didn’t choose vengeance."

"You did when you survived. And you kept surviving. And you started winning. That’s when you stopped being me."

The fire twisted. Turned red. Then black.

The brazier cracked, growing higher and spilling flame down the stone.

And for a moment, the girl of fire wept.

Tears made of liquid fire.

Falling and burning the ground beneath her feet

"But I didn’t want to be forgotten."

Elena stepped forward, slowly, gently. "Then don’t be."

She reached out—not with her dagger, not with a spell.

But with both hands.

"I remember you. Not as weakness. But as my beginning."

The flame-Elena blinked. Her shape flickered. She opened her mouth to speak—

—but instead,

Merged.

The flame collapsed inward.

And the fifth seal broke—not with a quake.

But with a sigh.

The white fire burst once.

And Elena stood alone in the centre, eyes glowing gold and blue.

She turned.

Leon was already running.

And this time, she let herself fall into his arms.

Because the fifth flame had given something back.

Not just power.

But memory, once forgotten and power long denied.

And it remembered who she used to be.

Leon held her longer than he intended. Not because she was weak—but because he wasn’t ready to let go. Not after what he’d seen, not after the way her eyes had changed. They no longer glowed with the raw shine of power or spellwork. They shimmered like dusk after a long winter—colder, yes, but honest. Remembering.

Behind them, the brazier flickered one last time, then went out.

No smoke.

Just silence.

Elena pulled back, but didn’t step away. Her hand brushed Leon’s chest—light, testing, as if making sure he was real.

"I saw the inside of it," she murmured.

Leon frowned. "The flame?"

She nodded. "It wasn’t fire. Not really. It was... memories, lit from underneath. All the parts I locked away, all the names I forgot on purpose. They were there, waiting."

"And now?"

"They’re not waiting anymore."

She turned, scanning the stone field. The brazier was nothing more than a frame of cold black iron now. The ground beneath it had split slightly—just a hairline fracture. But she could feel it. Deep as the Hollow. And older.

Leon’s gaze followed hers. "What did it show you at the end?"

Elena didn’t answer immediately.

Then"My name."

"You already knew your name."

"No," she said, quietly. "I knew what I called myself. This was something else. A name older than the Hollow. Before I ever picked up a blade."

He watched her. "What is it?"

She looked at him—and for the first time in days, her lips curled. Not quite a smile. Just close enough to remember how.

"Ask me again when the sixth seal breaks."

Leon let it go.

The others had begun to approach the field now, cautiously, as if stepping into the place might cause the earth to fall open again. Alden was first. Then Tomas. Then two others whose names had nearly slipped in the last seal’s haze—Mira and Callen.

They stopped at the edge of the blackened stone.

Tomas spoke, voice rasped. "It didn’t attack."

"No," Leon said. "It didn’t need to."

"It judged her?"

"It weighed her." He looked back at Elena. "And she didn’t break."

Tomas grunted. "We should burn what’s left. Mark it. Just in case."

"No," Elena said, startling them.

They turned.

She walked toward the brazier—slowly, unarmed now, her dagger sheathed.

"If we burn it, we forget it. If we forget it... the seal might not be the only thing that reopens."

Mira’s voice was thin. "Then what do we do?"

"We have to remember," Elena said simply. "We mark it with names. The ones we nearly lost. The ones we still have."

She drew a small piece of chalk from her belt. White, smooth, cracked near the tip. She knelt by the rim of the brazier and began to write.

The first name was her own.

Not Elena Greystone.

But a name none of them recognised.

And somehow, all of them understood.

One by one, the others followed.

Leon knelt last, and wrote just three letters.

ASH.

Not his name.

But the part of him that always survived.

When they finished, the field did not stir. But the wind blew softer. Warmer. And the stars came out—no longer hidden behind veils of smoke or mist. The sky was clear, and for the first time in weeks, they could see the moons.

Tomas whispered. "Does it feel... lighter to anyone else?"

Elena nodded. "Not lighter. Just clearer."

They didn’t camp that night.

They sat around what remained of the fifth seal, speaking names aloud to each other, as if stitching threads into their memories—lines to hold fast against whatever storm came next.

When the wind shifted, no voices came with it.

And when they rose to ride again, the ground behind them did not follow.

The dawn found them still moving.

No one spoke of rest. No one asked where the next seal lay. They just moved—horses quiet, saddles tight, eyes forward. The silence was no longer from fear, but reverence. Something sacred had been returned to them. Not safety. Not even strength.

Just a memory.

And it was enough to keep going.

Leon rode beside Elena now. Not leading. Not guarding. Just beside. Occasionally their shoulders brushed. Neither flinched.

They didn’t speak, not yet.

But they no longer needed to.

Behind them, Tomas grunted under the weight of the new supplies they’d salvaged from the ridge—blankets, tinder, a few shards of the brazier Leon insisted on keeping. He said it might be useful.

But truthfully, he just didn’t want to leave it behind.

Callen and Mira rode as scouts. Mira hummed under her breath—an old melody none of them could quite name. Alden rode with his head down, scribbling again in his tattered journal, the ink shaking every time the horse stepped off-centre.

None of them asked what he was writing.

They knew.

At the third mile, the road curved—and broke.

A deep gash had split the path ahead, wide enough to swallow two carts side by side. Steam rose from the fissure. It wasn’t hot, just wrong. The kind of wrong that made your skin itch before your brain noticed.

Leon reined his horse and raised a fist.

They stopped.

Elena tilted her head. "It’s not natural."

"No." Leon dismounted, crouched near the edge. "This wasn’t caused by weather."

"Spell?" Tomas asked, already unsheathing his sword.

"No." Elena was scanning the trees. "Something moved under here. Recently."

Callen rode back fast. "There’s another split to the west. Same depth. Same heat."

Leon didn’t answer right away.

Then he stood. "It’s not a fissure."

He pointed to the pattern stretching through the ground, through the forest, deeper than their eyes could follow.

"It’s a mark."

"A sigil," Elena murmured.

They all saw it then—lines forming beneath soil and stone, they were not glowing, nor obvious, but they were real. A brand carved into the land.

Mira breathed the words: "A sixth seal."

"When does it end" Tomas said with a sigh tilting his head up to the sky.

Elena closed her eyes.

And when she opened them, gold and blue shown.

It wasn’t fear.

But readiness.

Leon met her gaze. "Do you feel it?"

She nodded.

"It’s awake."

He turned to the rest.

"Keep moving. We’ll rest on the far side of the mark. Whatever’s under here... it knows we’re coming."

They mounted again.

And as the wind picked up, it carried no ashes.

Just whispers.

Soft. Familiar.

Like someone calling them home.

This chapt𝓮r is updat𝒆d by (f)reew𝒆b(n)ov𝒆l.com