Dawn bled across the mountains.
The skies above Crimson Hollow remained gray, cloaked in a mist that never lifted since the massacre. Mourning fires still smoldered in the lower quarters, and a strange silence had gripped the stronghold—one that whispered of betrayal, not grief.
Althar stood atop the southern watchtower, his eyes scanning the horizon. A firebird wheeled through the clouds above him, its cries sharp and lonely. Behind him, Ariya approached, bootsteps light against the stone.
"They've begun to crack," she said softly. "The younger Flameborn… They're starting to doubt."
"Let them," Althar replied. "Those who lose heart now never had it to begin with."
Ariya didn't argue. She simply handed him the scroll.
A coded message.
The ink shimmered faintly—ghostscript, only visible to those bound to the Seventh Crown.
A Veilborn cell has surfaced in the ruins of Vel Taren. One name confirmed: Malir the Hollow. Mind-weaver.
Beware. He carries the Mark of Twelve Eyes.
Althar read it twice.
Then he crushed the scroll in one hand.
"Prepare a strike force," he ordered. "I want this one buried in the ruins he crawled from."
Vel Taren was once a jewel of the eastern valleys, a spire-city built around an arcane river. Now it was a graveyard. The Empress had razed it years ago during her ascension—turning it into a warning of what defiance looked like.
The Flameborn arrived under cover of dusk.
No banners.
No horns.
Only death trailing behind their boots.
Althar led Seris, Ariya, and a dozen of his most hardened veterans into the shattered heart of the city. Crumbled bridges jutted like broken ribs across dried canals. Tower fragments stood like tombstones.
Seris ran her fingers through the blackened soil. "This place reeks of echo magic."
"Old spells?" Ariya asked.
"No," Seris said grimly. "Screams trapped in the stone."
A moment later, they heard one.
Faint.
Barely human.
It came from beneath.
They descended into the old reservoir tunnels—now a web of rot and darkness. The further they went, the more unnatural the air became.
Lanterns flickered against walls etched with eye-shaped runes.
"Be ready," Althar said. "He's watching."
One of the scouts, Javin, paused at a fork.
"I feel something—"
His voice died.
He collapsed.
Blood oozed from his eyes, nose, and ears.
Ariya dropped beside him, checking his pulse.
"Dead. No wound. No poison."
Seris swore. "Mind rupture. The weaver's near."
Althar clenched his jaw. "Stay close. Do not speak out of turn."
The first Veilborn cultists struck like shadows.
They dropped from cracks in the walls—faces masked, blades curved and soaked in memory poison. Two Flameborn died before they even screamed. Seris snapped her fingers, and a burst of fire tore the tunnel's ceiling apart, collapsing it behind them.
Althar moved like a ghost of war—his sword, Vorthal, a blur of silver and flame. He cut through three assassins before their feet touched stone.
But the real threat had yet to appear.
And then the voice came.
Smooth. Liquid. Inside their minds.
"You wear a crown, little king. But your mind is still open."
Althar froze.
The world wavered.
He was no longer in the tunnel.
He stood in a throne room of glass, staring into the eyes of a younger version of himself—one that smiled with cruelty and contempt.
"You think you've changed?" the voice hissed. "You think feeling makes you strong?"
"It makes you soft."
The younger Althar raised a hand—and behind him, Ariya and Seris knelt, bound in chains of fire. A thousand bodies burned in the distance.
Althar felt a flicker of rage—but he didn't let it bloom.
He closed his eyes.
This isn't real.
A pulse surged through him—the heat of the Seventh Crown rising from deep within his core.
With a roar, Althar shattered the illusion.
The real world came rushing back.
A hooded figure stood before him, eyes swirling with sigils—Malir the Hollow.
"You resist," the weaver hissed, blood trailing from his nose. "You shouldn't be able to—"
Althar stepped forward, flames dancing down his arms.
"I'm not the man I was."
Malir screeched, lunging with a blade of bone—but it never connected.
Althar caught his wrist.
And burned him alive.
No scream. Only smoke.
When it was over, the remaining cultists fled. The tunnels collapsed behind them, sealing the dead within.
Ariya leaned against the wall, breathing hard.
Seris wiped her blade on a cloth. "The weaver's gone. One less eye watching."
Althar stood over the scorched remnants of Malir.
"No," he said. "They saw everything."
He turned away, voice low.
"And now… they know I can break them."
Far away, deep in the Empress's palace of black spires, a woman stirred from a pool of obsidian.
Her eyes narrowed.
"So… the Crown-Bearer awakens," she murmured.
She raised her hand, where twelve rings glowed.
"Then it's time to send the Heir of Silence."