It had been three weeks since the fall of Valas.
The fires of war had dimmed. The towers of Emberhold no longer groaned under the weight of siege. Where once death and ash reigned, laughter and the clatter of hammers echoed through the stone halls. Masons, warriors, and former refugees worked side by side. Hope, long buried beneath grief and ruin, now rose like green shoots through scorched earth.
Kael moved through the courtyard, now transformed into a forge-ground and meeting place. His armor, dulled by battle and blood, had been replaced by robes of obsidian and crimson—symbols of his rightful station. Yet, the crown remained absent from his head.
"Not yet," he had told the council. "Not until the last shadow is named."
Seraphine walked beside him, her presence radiant in a silver gown lined with celestial embroidery. The Phoenix Tear still pulsed at her heart, though its light had quieted into a steady glow—no longer dangerous, but forever watchful.
"You've turned a battlefield into a sanctuary," she murmured.
Kael smiled faintly. "I've done nothing without you."
That night, in the throne room where Valas had once sworn fealty as a child, Kael stood alone. The fires in the braziers flickered as if disturbed by wind, though the doors were sealed.
"You hesitate to take the throne."
Kael turned sharply.
At the edge of the shadows stood a figure—hooded, tall, cloaked in a tattered robe that shimmered like wet stone under moonlight.
Kael didn't reach for his blade. Not yet. "Who are you?"
The figure tilted its head. "One who was there… before the pact. Before your kind fractured the worlds."
Its voice was like crackling parchment and thunder under water.
"You sealed one Vault," the figure continued, stepping closer. "But the others… stir. One has already cracked."
Kael's heartbeat stilled. "What do you mean?"
The figure raised a skeletal hand, unveiling a symbol scorched into the air—a circle of chains broken in one place.
"The Vault of Silence. Broken five days ago. In the ruins beneath the Crying Hills."
Kael's voice dropped to a whisper. "That's impossible. It was warded by the Astral Court and the Nine Demons—"
"Not anymore."
"The world is waking, Kael Thorne," the figure rasped. "The first war was survival. The second will be revelation. And not all truths are kind."
At dawn, Kael gathered his council—Lady Neryssa, General Bryn, Zafira, Seraphine, and three newly chosen lords from the unified provinces.
He relayed the figure's message, the cracked Vault, and the sigil.
They erupted in debate.
"The Vaults were myths," Lord Arkan muttered, pacing. "Stories to scare children into obeying temple law."
"They were real," Zafira corrected, calmly. "I saw their flames with my own eyes."
"If another one breaks," Seraphine said, "then whatever was sealed inside it may already be moving."
General Bryn slammed his fist against the table. "Then we prepare for war."
"No," Kael said. "We prepare for truth."
Eyes turned to him.
"Before we draw swords again, we must know what we're fighting."
That night, Kael stood at the gates of the royal library when a messenger arrived—riding a black stag, blood on his hands, fear in his eyes.
He bowed low. "This letter was found tied to the body of a priest near the Ashlands."
Kael unfolded the parchment.
"To the Demon Heir Who Sits Upon a Stolen Throne—
You sealed your brother, but not your destiny.
They are coming.
And they remember the price your blood once demanded."
Signed with a name Kael had never seen…
but Seraphine had.
Her eyes widened. "It's from the Keeper of Dust."
Kael frowned. "Who?"
She met his gaze, voice suddenly low.
"A god we thought long dead."