Kaelen's breath misted as he stood frozen at the foot of the throne. The air was colder here, still as glass—yet there was a heartbeat beneath it, low and steady, pulsing like the echo of war drums in a long-abandoned hall.
The man on the throne—his father, younger and whole—sat in silence, golden armor catching the silver firelight from braziers that hadn't burned in decades.
"Welcome, Elion," the man said again, though his voice was softer now. "You wear a different name these days."
Kaelen's hand went to the Midnight Blade at his side, but it did not burn. It hummed—resonating, almost reverent.
"This… isn't real," Kaelen said, more to himself than to the king.
"Reality," the man said, rising, "is a fragile thing in the place between places."
He stepped down from the throne with the gait of a warrior long undefeated. "The Crossroads gave you a path through memory—but not just your own. Blood remembers, Kaelen. And here, blood walks."
Kaelen's mouth went dry. "You died before I was born. You—"
"I was murdered," the man corrected, voice sharp with iron. "By those I trusted. For the same reason you were hidden."
A storm flickered in Kaelen's mind. The boy with two names. The blade that chose him. The sigil on his chest.
"You're not just a ghost," Kaelen whispered.
The man smiled faintly. "No. I'm a scar. A warning. And perhaps… a key."
He stepped closer, and Kaelen could see the cracks in the illusion—his father's image wavered slightly, a shimmer in the golden light, like a reflection on rippling water. But the emotion in his eyes was solid, and filled with grief.
"They will come for you now," he said. "Because you chose the silver path. You chose to remember."
Kaelen's fists clenched. "Why me?"
"Because you carry what they feared in me," the king said, reaching up to the collar of his tunic. He pulled forth a chain—and on it, a stone the color of midnight flame. It pulsed, once, and Kaelen's blade responded.
"A king's flame isn't passed down by blood," he said. "It's awakened by purpose. And you… you are waking."
The air shivered.
A distant boom echoed through the room—stone cracking, magic unraveling.
Kaelen turned. Shadows gathered at the door. Dozens of them—cloaked, faceless, with brands that shimmered red across their foreheads. The Veiled, sentinels of the broken realm, sworn to silence and slaughter.
"They've found you," the king said.
Kaelen raised his sword. "Then let them try."
But the king stepped forward and placed a hand over Kaelen's heart. The Midnight Blade flared, and the floor beneath them cracked—revealing a seal carved with the same sigil from Kaelen's vision in the Mirror Room.
"Go," the king said. "Follow the truth down, not forward. Beneath the throne… lies the beginning."
The Veiled surged forward.
And the floor gave way.
Kaelen fell—light and sound spinning into a blur of silver and black. And just before everything vanished, he heard his father's voice one last time:
"You are not the last heir.You are the first flame."
Kaelen awoke coughing in the dark.
He was underground. Stone walls, old and wet, pressed close around him. The only light came from his blade, now steady and white-hot.
"Elira?" he called.
No answer.
But as he turned, he saw a door—small, ancient, covered in script he couldn't read… and beneath it, voices. Not spoken, but remembered. Secrets.
He took a step forward, and the voices grew clearer.
The truth was beneath the throne.
And it had been waiting for him.