When he emerged, the monks bowed lower.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to.
Lyra rushed to him, eyes wide. "What happened? Your eyes—"
He looked at her. His pupils were no longer round. They were slit, like a serpent's.
"I saw Myrzael's memories," he muttered. "And something worse. A prophecy."
She waited.
"He created three Vessels. I'm the last. The only one who hasn't fallen."
She gasped. "What about the others?"
"Dead," he replied. "Or worse—sleeping."
The lead monk approached.
"You carry the Flame of the Third Seal. You must awaken the others. Or kill them. The balance of the world teeters."
Oryzzell turned to him.
"What balance?"
The monk's voice was barely a whisper: "The Chains of Godfall have begun to break."
Suddenly, a tremor rocked the monastery.
Screams echoed from the upper levels.
Oryzzell rushed up the stairs—Lyra beside him—only to find the monks under attack.
A man clad in crimson armor, eyes glowing blue with unnatural fire, stood amidst a dozen dead monks.
"I am Nassir the Hollow, First Vessel of Myrzael," the warrior announced.
"I have come for my brother."
Oryzzell felt the Mark burn.
He wasn't ready.
But it was too late to run.