The throne room of Dreadhold lay quiet now, the echoes of clashing steel still haunting its scorched stone. A throne untouched by age sat beneath the great black banner of the Thorned Crown, and in the center of the hall, the Thorns stood in a broken circle—silent, bruised, and bloodied.
Kael watched them from his throne, his breath shallow, his gaze darkened. Shadows coiled beneath his feet, subtle but present—drawn not by command, but by instinct. Rage had nearly consumed him again. He hadn't lashed out. But he'd almost let them kill each other.
"We are meant to be protectors," Kael said, voice hollow. "Not blades turned on each other."
Valdran stepped forward first, nursing a split lip. "We needed to bleed, Kael. Better here than on a battlefield where hesitation would mean death."
Others murmured agreement—reluctant, but sincere. But among them, a few exchanged lingering glances. Old grudges didn't vanish in one brawl.
The great doors creaked open, and a chill wind swept in.
Lyra entered, her cloak dusted with frost from the journey home. Luna and Eclipse flanked her—silent, watchful. She looked different—harder, sharper. Her eyes locked with Kael's and for a moment, everything else faded.
"I found it," she said. "The name. The god sealed by the kings of old. N'therak."
A pulse ran through the hall at the name alone. The shadows at Kael's feet recoiled, as if aware.
She stepped closer. "He isn't just some forgotten god. He was bound through the rewriting of his name—his soul fragmented, buried across ancient sites. The Eye isn't a power. It's a prison key."
Kael rose slowly. "And it's been turning me into the lock."
Before more could be said, the fortress shuddered.
From the highest tower, a beacon once long-dead suddenly flared to life—black flame spiraling into the sky. Screams echoed from outside as courtiers and soldiers scrambled to understand what they were witnessing.
In far-off lands, omens stirred.
In Velharys, Seris Vale stood on a balcony, watching as birds spiraled downward, dropping mid-flight—each with a single crimson eye weeping blood.
In the Silver Dominion, the high priestess of the Flame drowned mid-ritual, choking on ashes that should not have been.
In the east, an ancient mountain cracked open, and from its depths, something vast and chained groaned beneath the earth.
The world was awakening.
And back in Dreadhold, Kael staggered.
He clutched his head as the Eye blazed behind his thoughts, whispering not in words—but in forgotten truths. His vision split. He saw a battlefield of black sand, a sky lit by three suns, and a figure watching him from the void—one eye missing, the other aflame.
Then, in an instant—he was gone.
Only for a heartbeat. But to those in the room, Kael vanished—reality itself folding around where he stood.
And then he returned.
Collapsed. Gasping. Pale.
The Thorns rushed to his side, but Lyra beat them there, cradling him.
He looked at her with fear in his eyes. Not for her.
For himself.
"I'm slipping," he whispered. "I felt it… I wasn't me. I was him."
Lyra shook her head fiercely. "You're still Kael. You're still my Kael."
But outside, in the growing night, something ancient watched.
The Eye had begun to stir the world—and the crown of thorns would soon be tested like never before.