A breathless silence held the Sanctum of Verdicts.
No one spoke. No one dared.
The arcane sun above flickered erratically, as if sensing what had just been unearthed. The name Aetherion still pulsed across the obsidian pedestal like a curse reawakened. The Monarchs sat frozen, their elemental thrones casting uneasy glows across the war chamber.
Only Emperor Malrik Vortan remained standing.
He moved to the edge of the circle, where the outer shadows of the Sanctum gathered like whispers. The golden trim of his cloak caught the light, but his face—weathered and scarred—looked suddenly older, as though the name itself had pulled time forward onto his shoulders.
He inhaled slowly.
"You want to understand the weight of what's returned?" he began, his voice like molten steel poured into silence. "Then listen. And listen well."
He turned to the center of the chamber, raising both hands. The air shimmered. Ancient wards activated with a crack of soundless thunder, projecting a series of illusory visions above the pedestal.
It showed a sky—not of this world.
Vast and burned by twin suns. Storms raged across it endlessly, unnatural and furious. Floating citadels the size of cities drifted between the lightning-choked clouds. And upon one such sky-fortress stood a man surrounded by fire and wind, cloaked in a mantle of war.
Malrik's voice deepened.
"His name was Kaelith Aetherion. King of the Aetherion Dominion. Master of wind and fire, heir to a lineage born not of magic, but of command over the primordial forces themselves. Where others cast elements… he was the storm. The blaze. The tyrant wind."
The projection showed Kaelith unleashing a cyclone of blazing wind, vaporizing entire armadas of winged beasts with a single movement of his arm. His eyes glowed with violet-gold fire. His steps cracked the floating earth beneath him.
"They called him the Scorchwind Sovereign," Malrik said. "Not because he ruled with cruelty—but because his wrath was absolute. Kingdoms that defied him didn't fall. They were erased."
A new figure appeared beside Kaelith. Tall. Radiant. Hair like woven starlight and eyes brimming with unseen depth. She raised her arms, and from the clouds came a rain of celestial blades—silent and beautiful and devastating.
"Queen Lysaria. His wife. His equal. Where Kaelith was fury, Lysaria was judgment. Every breath she drew carried the weight of foresight. It was said she could see a man's sins with a glance… and cast sentence upon his soul with a word."
The chamber dimmed.
"And then there was Zarathul," Malrik whispered. The name itself seemed to bruise the air.
The illusion darkened to show a massive battlefield—charred, lifeless, dead. One figure stood in the center. Towering. Cloaked in obsidian and bone. His skin gleamed with runes carved into his very flesh. Flames coiled endlessly around him—but they did not flicker like spells. They screamed.
"Zarathul Aetherion. Kaelith's father. Warlord of the Abysswinds. The one the stars feared."
Lightning struck behind the projection, uncalled. Malrik continued, voice quieter now.
"No histories remain of his battles. No empires record his conquests. Because he unmade history. Civilizations didn't survive long enough to remember what had destroyed them. His rage... carved silence across the cosmos."
The visions faded. The room returned to silence.
Malrik faced the Monarchs now.
"This… is what that name holds. Aetherion. You ask why it was hidden? Why only Emperors were permitted to know?"
He pointed to the projection where the boy's name still burned: Klaus Aetherion.
"Because they were a civilization feared among the stars. Not for conquest—but because their power was beyond containment. Not even the Ancients who built the Thrones dared to provoke them."
He let the weight settle, then added:
"When I took the Throne, my predecessor gave me only fragments. A warning. A few names. And one command: If the blood ever awakens again, do not act in ignorance. Do not provoke. Do not claim dominion over what you cannot leash."
He stepped closer.
"Klaus. Aetherion. The last son of a vanished dynasty. And now… he's awakened. Not as a symbol. Not as a threat."
He paused, and his voice lowered with deadly calm.
"But as a storm that remembers it was once a god."
None of the Monarchs moved. The flames on the walls dimmed to embers. The arcane sun above gave one last flicker… and then fell still.
And somewhere, far beyond Virelion's skies—
the wind stirred.