The chamber where Kael had been held was silent now, suffocating in its stillness. Cracked stone walls loomed around him, ancient chains soaked in blood rattled faintly with every tremble of his breath. The torches burned low, casting flickering shadows across his bruised and broken form.
Kael hung limp, suspended by enchanted shackles carved with forgotten runes. Blood dripped slowly from his wrists and mouth, pooling beneath him. His cursed eye, dull and half-lidded, stared into the void. He was no longer screaming. He didn't have the strength.
And then, the visions began.
He saw Lyra.
She stood amidst a battlefield, obsidian armor shattered, blood soaking her tunic. Her eyes were wide with fear, her lips trembling as she mouthed his name. A blade pierced through her chest.
"No," Kael rasped. "No, no, no..."
Another vision came—Dreadhold burning. Its walls crumbled, its people slaughtered. The children's screams echoed in his mind. The Thorns fell, one after another, dying in agony.
He clenched his jaw, blood seeping between his teeth.
Then, the voice came again—silken, ancient, inhuman.
"You see it now, don't you, Kael? This world burns whether you resist or not. But you… you can burn it back."
Kael gritted his teeth. "I won't… let you hurt her."
"Then don't. Surrender to me, and I will spare her. I will spare all you love. My war is not with your heart—it is with your will."
Kael was shaking, his body trembling from exhaustion and despair. He felt the weight of every death, every scream, every failure. The blood on Lyra's hands haunted him.
"…You swear it?" he whispered.
"On my chains. On the name buried in ruin—N'therak. I will not harm Lyra. Nor those she protects. Let me in, and I will grant you power enough to defy fate itself."
His cursed eye flared open, a black-gold glow radiating from its center. The markings across his arms pulsed. Something ancient stirred beneath his skin.
And Kael… let go.
The chains exploded, shattered into molten fragments that hissed and melted into the stone floor. Shadows consumed the chamber as Kael collapsed to the ground, coughing, clawing at the floor as divine energy surged through his veins.
Cultists rushed in, panicked by the tremors.
One approached. "My lord, you're awake—we welco—"
Kael's body rose slowly, levitating a few feet off the ground. His skin was marked with glowing gold veins, his eye burning with divine fire. N'therak's voice echoed through him.
"I smell defiance."
He raised a single hand.
The cultist disintegrated—no scream, no resistance. Just a black flame that consumed him whole.
The others dropped to their knees in terror.
"Worship properly… or die properly."
Kael floated above them, barely conscious beneath the surface, a passenger in his own body.
And deep within his soul… he whispered one name.
"…Lyra…"
Meanwhile — Dreadhold
Storms loomed above Dreadhold. The clouds pulsed with cursed energy, and the winds carried whispers that made men shiver. Thunder cracked in unnatural rhythm, echoing the tremor of a war not yet begun.
In the throne hall, the Twelve Thorns stood together for the first time since Kael's capture.
Then, the doors swung open.
An envoy from the allied nations entered, flanked by soldiers draped in the colors of several kingdoms. His golden armor shimmered with enchantments, and his face bore the smug calm of a man who believed himself invincible.
He stepped forward, unfurled a sealed scroll, and read aloud without ceremony.
"In the absence of your king, the nations of the world have come to a decision. Dreadhold is to be disarmed. Your armies will stand down. All magical relics and weapons will be surrendered. You have seven days."
The Thorns tensed. Several reached for their weapons.
"If you refuse," the envoy continued, "your kingdom will be treated as a rogue state, and we will march. This is your final mercy."
Valdran stepped forward, voice like steel. "Dreadhold doesn't kneel. Not to cowards hiding behind scrolls."
The envoy narrowed his eyes but said nothing more. He turned and walked out in silence.
Silence followed.
Then Valdran slammed his fist into the war table, cracking the stone. "They're using Kael's absence to strike. Just as he feared."
Lyra stood at the edge of the room, clutching the bloodstained cloth she'd retrieved from Kael's prison. Her eyes didn't move from the window—the place where she'd last felt his presence.
"Kael…" she whispered. Her fingers clenched tighter.
Kael now sat upon a jagged obsidian throne, his arms chained in glowing divine metal. The markings along his body pulsed with gold and black energy. Blood trailed from his cursed eye, while the other cried a single tear.
He was awake.
He was watching.
And from deep within… he was waiting.