The weight of the family’s history flickered through York’s consciousness like dying embers.

  As the current Lord of House Thorne, Silas’s power was capped at the peak of the Bronze Rank. In the grand scheme of the frontier, that made the Thornes little more than a footnote—a minor house clinging to a patch of dirt in the Forsaken Hills.

  "Report the casualties," Silas commanded, his voice raspy, echoing against the cold stone of the Sanctum.

  "Five men-at-arms dead, My Lord. Ten wounded," Caleb replied, his voice tight with suppressed rage. "Uncle Ewan’s arm is shattered, and Uncle Gareth took a blow to the chest that’s clouded his lungs. They’re alive, but their days of wielding Iron-Rank Essence are over. They’re... they're spent."

  Silas let out a long, shuddering breath.

  York watched them from his rooted position, processing the data like a grim balance sheet. The Thornes had started the day with five Bronze-Rank warriors. One had been butchered in the last skirmish; now, two more were crippled. The math of survival was turning against them. If something didn't change, the Thorne name would be scrubbed from the annals of history within the month.

  Silas’s gaze hardened, a grim resolve settling over his features. He looked like a man about to commit a holy sacrilege to save a soul.

  "Send the word," Silas whispered. "Tomorrow, at dusk, the youth of the family are to be moved through the hidden passage. All of them."

  Caleb stiffened, his eyes widening. "And the rest of us?"

  Silas didn't look at him. "The rest of us stay. We prepare for a final stand against the Lees. If we are to fall, we will ensure House Lee bleeds enough that they cannot enjoy the spoils."

  Caleb lowered his head, his knuckles white. York could sense the boy’s turmoil—a volatile mix of grief and pragmatic fury. He knew the logic: if everyone fled, the Lees would sniff out the trail in hours. Someone had to stay behind to keep the pyre burning.

  "You are the strongest of your generation, Caleb," Silas said, placing a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. "You go with them. As long as a Thorne draws breath, the House is not dead."

  "I’m not running!" Caleb snapped, his head snapping up. "If the House falls, I fall with it!"

  Silas sighed, the sound of a man who had no more arguments left to give. He turned his gaze toward the ancestral tablets lining the walls, and then, his eyes drifted to the center of the courtyard.

  To York.

  Caleb followed his father's gaze. The moment his eyes landed on York’s gnarled, leafless branches, the grief in his expression curdled into pure, unadulterated loathing. He marched to the corner of the Sanctum, his hand closing around the handle of a heavy woodsman’s axe.

  Wait, what are you doing? York thought, his consciousness jolting. Kid, put the steel down. We can talk about this!

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  But to them, York was just a dead hunk of wood. Caleb stomped toward him, the axe head gleaming in the moonlight. He raised the tool high, his muscles tensing for a cleaving blow.

  "Stop!" Silas roared. "What madness is this?"

  Caleb paused, the axe trembling in mid-air, but he didn't lower it. "I’m ending this farce, Father! I’m cutting down this useless parasite!"

  "Lower your weapon!" Silas commanded. "That is the Ancestral Yew! You will show it the reverence it is owed!"

  "Reverence?" Caleb’s voice cracked. "It’s a stump! We’re facing extinction, and you’re worried about a tree? We’ve poured gallons of precious beast-blood onto its roots for twenty years. We’ve offered it sacrifices that could have fed our soldiers or tempered our blades. And what has it given us? Not a single leaf! Not a spark of power!"

  He spat on the dry earth at York's base.

  "If the House is to burn, I’ll at least use this 'Holy Tree' as firewood for the forge. At least then it might actually contribute something to our defense!"

  York felt a pang of indignation. Firewood? I’m a transmigrator! I’m the protagonist! You can’t turn the MC into a charcoal briquette!

  But looking at Caleb, York realized he needed more information. He focused his will, pushing his nascent energy toward the boy.

  [TRUTH HORIZON ACTIVATED]

  Target: Caleb Thorne

  Rank: Bronze Rank (Mid-Stage)

  Potential: High-Tier (A-Rank)

  Status: Resentful, Desperate, High Combat Aptitude.

  Note: A prodigy of the blade, currently blinded by pragmatism.

  The kid was talented. Probably the only hope the Thornes had. But he was also five seconds away from turning York into kindling.

  "You understand nothing," Silas said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. He stepped between Caleb and York, his hand resting on the hilt of his own sword. "House Thorne was not always a collection of border-scum, Caleb. We were a Great House. We held the High Seats before the Great Fall."

  Caleb froze. This wasn't the usual lecture on family honor.

  "This Yew... it is the Last Ember," Silas continued, his eyes misty. "It is the only living relic we saved from the old capital. The records say that as long as the Yew stands, the Thorne bloodline can never truly be extinguished. It is the seed of our restoration. That is why we sacrifice. That is why we endure."

  Caleb slowly lowered the axe, though the scowl remained. "Twenty years, Father. Twenty years of 'enduring,' and it’s still a dead stick. Your 'Last Ember' is cold."

  "As long as I am Lord, the sacrifices continue," Silas said with a finality that brooked no further argument. "Now, go. Check on your Uncle Ewan. That is an order."

  Caleb glared at York one last time—a look that promised a very sharp blade if Silas ever turned his back—and stormed out of the Sanctum.

  Silence reclaimed the courtyard. Silas stood alone before York, his shoulders slumping. The mask of the stern Lord fell away, leaving only a tired, broken old man. He reached out, his calloused hand brushing York's rough bark.

  "Am I a fool?" he whispered to the wind. "Have I starved my kin for a ghost? If you truly are the Ember... please. Give me a sign. Anything."

  He waited. York wanted to scream, to burst into flame, to grow a thousand leaves right then and there. But he had no energy left. He was a battery that had been drained for two decades, and he was only just beginning to find the 'on' switch.

  Silas sighed, the sound of a man losing his faith. He turned and walked away, his silhouette looking smaller and more hunched with every step.

  As the heavy doors of the Sanctum creaked shut, York sat in the darkness, the cold moonlight bathing his dry limbs.

  Caleb was right about one thing: the Lees were coming. And if York didn't find a way to show his worth before the next sun set, the only thing he’d be providing House Thorne was a very expensive funeral pyre.

  I need blood, York realized, a primal instinct stirring in his roots. And I need it now.

  System Update:

  [Name: York]

  [Race: Ancient Yew (Withered)]

  [Vitality: 0.5 / 100]

  [Aether: 2]

  [Status: Critically Endangered. The scent of iron and blood is the only thing that can wake the roots.]