The embers had hardly cooled when the whispers returned.
Lucian stood atop the marble steps that once led to the Heir's Seat, now nothing more than scorched ruin. The sigil of Astralis still shimmered faintly at his side, pulsing in tune with his heartbeat. Each pulse was a reminder: he wasn't alone anymore—not within himself.
Behind him, Seraphis watched the horizon darken unnaturally, as if night itself had decided to arrive early.
"They're not done testing you," Seraphis said, voice low. "The Vox was only the beginning."
Lucian nodded. "I know. That's why we won't wait."
He descended the broken steps with deliberate calm. Each footfall cracked remnants of mosaic tiles, once etched with the names of the Founding Bloodlines. Their legacy had failed him once. He wouldn't let it again.
Beneath the main courtyard was a chamber only he and his father had known—The Sanctum of Echoes. A place where secrets slept.
"I thought this place was sealed," Seraphis said as Lucian traced his fingers across the stone crest hidden beneath a false altar.
Lucian didn't answer. Instead, he whispered a phrase in Old Astralian—a language long purged from noble tongues. The stone shifted. A silent groan, then a passage revealed itself, yawning open like a wound.
A rush of stale, ancient air swept upward. They descended into it.
The Sanctum was untouched by time. Crystals embedded in the walls flickered to life at Lucian's presence, casting soft silver light. Along the walls were glyphs and murals—histories hidden from the public eye. Stories of rebellion, betrayal... and prophecy.
"This," Lucian said, gesturing to a mural of a child crowned in flame, "was never just a throne. It was a prison. For something."
Seraphis studied the glyphs. "What are you saying?"
"I think the fall of Astralis wasn't a failure. It was a seal breaking. One that was never meant to hold forever."
A shiver passed through the chamber.
Then, a low thump echoed from deeper within. Like a heartbeat—slow, and wrong.
Lucian moved toward the sound, passing an altar etched with the names of fallen heirs. At its center lay a sarcophagus, chained in celestial silver. Carvings marked it with warnings: "Beneath this rests the Buried Kin. Do not wake. Do not claim."
Lucian extended his hand.
Seraphis grabbed his wrist. "Don't. We don't know what lies inside."
"I do," Lucian replied. "My name is on the altar."
Seraphis stepped back, stunned. There it was—etched faintly, but undeniably: Lucian D. Astralis.
"But that's not possible."
Lucian's voice was grim. "It means I've died before. Or... I was meant to."
He placed his palm on the lid. A faint glow sparked beneath his skin, and the chains melted into smoke. The sarcophagus creaked open, stone grinding on stone.
Inside was no corpse.
It was a mirror.
But the reflection was not him.
Lucian stared at a version of himself—eyes blackened, skin marked with sigils, a twisted smile on the glass. It blinked.
Seraphis drew his blade. "That's not a mirror. That's a gate."
Lucian didn't move. "Then the real question is: which side am I on?"
Behind them, the chamber trembled.
The throne above was broken, yes.
But beneath the court, a war had already begun.