The fires had quieted, but the city had not.
Pacthaven stood suspended between past and future, a city caught in the breath before transformation. Rubble littered the Grand Spire's plaza, but people no longer fled—they gathered. Whispered names from the scroll spread like wildfire, reigniting memory, lineage, and buried grief.
Kael stood at the center of it all.
His cloak was torn, ash streaked his face, and his aura burned low—but his presence commanded silence.
Around him, a ring of former exiles—descendants of the Thirteenth Pact—had emerged from the crowd, drawn by the broken seal. Many had hidden in the lowest levels of the city, in the shadow-slums and the web of forbidden archives beneath the Hall of Scribes. Now, emboldened by Kael's act, they stepped forward, their brands glowing faintly with recognition.
"These were once the builders of the realm," Lin said softly, standing beside him. "Before they were erased."
Aelira joined them, eyes narrowed. "They'll need more than memory to survive what's coming."
"What's coming?" Kael asked.
She turned to him. "The true heirs of the High Circle. The ones who vanished before the Inquisition took over. If they see this as a threat…"
She didn't finish. She didn't need to.
As if summoned by her words, the sky trembled.
A tear opened—like the Prism itself had blinked.
Kael felt it before he saw it.
A pull. Not just on his spirit—but on the very thread of his identity.
From the breach, three figures descended.
Cloaked in robes of pure twilight, their faces masked in mirrored glass, they wore no sigils—but their presence weighed more than a throne.
The eldest among them raised a hand.
"Kael of the Echo Root," the voice was neither male nor female, but layered—like a choir of selves. "You have awakened what was buried."
Kael stood firm. "Because you buried the truth."
The middle figure stepped forward. "And in doing so, you may have broken the balance."
The third extended a hand. "Come with us. The Prism must decide."
Kael's aura surged. "No."
The crowd gasped.
"I am not bound to your judgment," he said. "The Prism answered me. The Thirteenth Pact lives. And so do their truths."
The sky crackled.
The breach widened.
Reality trembled.
Then came the echo.
A whisper, ancient and deafening.
"Balance must be reforged."
In that instant, a wave of force lashed across the city. The crowd staggered. The cloaked figures didn't move—but their gazes sharpened.
Kael stood amidst it all—threads spiraling from his body, reaching into the earth, the sky, the hearts of those around him.
He was not just a Pactbearer anymore.
He was a convergence point—a living thread between past and future, exile and empire, silence and truth.
Behind him, Lin grasped his arm. "You don't have to fight them alone."
He smiled faintly. "But I was always meant to stand alone… so others wouldn't have to."
The ground cracked.
A thread of starlight erupted from beneath his feet.
The Prism had not vanished—it had followed him. Rooted itself within him.
One of the cloaked figures spoke again, more hesitant now. "He's becoming… a vessel."
Kael's voice boomed—not by spell, but by will.
"No. I am becoming the balance you tried to break."
The final seal inside the scroll ignited, its flame turning from gold to obsidian. The names burned brighter. A second list appeared—names not of the Forgotten, but of the betrayers.
Lin read them aloud.
One by one.
Every name etched in silence now rang through Pacthaven like bells of reckoning.
The city changed.
So did the threads.