News of the monster slain in the Underdeep had already reached ears it shouldn't have.
A god-hollow destroyed.A boy bearing the sigil.A bastard no longer forgotten.
Not just whispers now—rumors with teeth.
In the golden halls of Vel Tareth, capital of the Imperium, an audience chamber swelled with tension. Marble statues of ancient emperors loomed, and the scent of oils and smoke clung to every shadow.
Emperor Caelius Thorne listened, unmoving, as his Spymaster relayed the details.
"The Hollow is gone. Consumed. The sigil-bearer was seen fleeing the eastern gulch near Blackfall Ridge. Survivors describe… fire. Voices. Gods."
The Emperor turned to the woman by his side. She stood taller than most men, clad in red silk over fine armor, her face veiled but her voice sharp.
General Vireya. The Emperor's blade—and sometimes, his leash.
"And you're sure it's the bastard son?" she asked.
"Kael Draven," the Spymaster confirmed. "The one abandoned by Lord Halric. He walks with fire now."
The Emperor finally spoke.
"Then it's time we bring the boy home."
Meanwhile—
Kael sat by a river beneath dying moonlight, his body wrapped in a cloak of stolen wool, his thoughts heavier than armor.
He hadn't slept since the Hollow.
Visions kept clawing into him—whispers of gods in chains, broken thrones, memories not his own.The Mark burned softly on his chest, not in pain, but urgency.
He wasn't alone anymore.Something watched him. Not a beast—the world itself.
Footsteps. Rustling leaves.
He spun, blade drawn—only to freeze.
"Kael?"
Her voice cracked the walls of his soul.
A girl stepped into view—cloaked in dust and light, eyes wide with disbelief.
Iris.
The only person he'd ever trusted.His childhood friend.His protector.The one he thought dead.
She looked older. Worn. But her eyes still carried that reckless fire.
"You're alive," Kael whispered, unsure if it was a dream."You shouldn't be here," he added, stepping back. "They're hunting me."
Iris laughed bitterly. "They're hunting me, too. For helping you escape all those years ago. For refusing to bow. You think the Empire forgives so easily?"
They stood in silence. The river whispered between them.
"You've changed," she said finally.
"So have you," he replied. "But I don't know if that's a good thing."
Their eyes met.
And for a moment—just one—he was the scared boy again, running through the halls of Cresthold, her hand pulling him toward freedom.
Then the Imperial arrow struck the ground between them.
Dozens followed—thudding into the trees, the rocks, the earth.
Kael moved without thinking, grabbing Iris and diving for cover. Arrows hissed past. Men shouted.
Imperial Rangers.
They surrounded the glade like wolves. Kael counted at least twenty.
He rose slowly, eyes burning, Mark glowing beneath his shirt.
A man stepped forward—young, clean-shaven, armor gilded with gold trim.
Commander Lucien Vale. The Emperor's newest pet. And Iris's old betrothed.
"Kael Draven," Lucien called, raising his blade. "By decree of Emperor Caelius, you are to be brought to Vel Tareth. Alive. Or in chains."
Kael stepped forward.
"Why now?"
Lucien smirked.
"Because the Emperor believes you're not a threat—but an opportunity. The gods are stirring, the people are restless, and your story... inspires."
Kael spat on the ground.
"He wants to use me."
"Of course he does. But he'll gild your cage. Feed you praise. Give you a title. Even a crown, if you kneel deep enough."
"And if I don't?"
Lucien's smile vanished.
"Then you'll burn like the last of the heretics."
Iris stepped beside Kael, blade drawn.
"You'll have to kill me first."
Lucien looked genuinely sad. "Why do you always choose the losing side, Iris?"
Kael's body ignited in divine fire.
"Because the losing side is always the one fighting for the truth."
They struck first.
Kael and Iris moved as one, flames and steel cutting through Imperial ranks like a storm.
Kael's power surged—the language of the old gods echoing in his mouth—each word bending reality slightly. Slowing time. Weakening enemy limbs. Amplifying his strength.
But it wasn't enough.
Lucien was no ordinary soldier.
He wielded a relic sword—star-metal forged, humming with null magic. It absorbed Kael's fire. Reflected it.
The duel was brutal. Fast. Lucien fought with the elegance of a duelist and the cruelty of a loyal dog.
Kael was wounded—shoulder, leg, ribs. Blood in his mouth.
But then—he grinned.
He whispered another word from the Old Tongue.
"Mirror."
Lucien froze—his own image flickering behind his eyes.
A second Kael appeared beside him. An illusion? No. A fragment of memory, solid for only a moment.
It struck deep—blade finding Lucien's side.
Lucien screamed and dropped to a knee.
Kael limped forward, blade to his throat.
"Tell your Emperor," he growled, "I'm not his pawn."
He spared Lucien's life—barely.
And disappeared into the forest, Iris by his side.
Back in Vel Tareth…
Lucien knelt, bloodied but alive, before the Emperor.
Caelius Thorne stared down at him.
"You failed."
Lucien bowed his head. "He's more than we expected."
"Good," the Emperor said softly. "Let the people hear of him. Let the legend grow."
General Vireya stepped forward.
"You wanted him captured."
"I want him believed in," Caelius corrected. "What better tool to control the gods than the man they chose?"
He smiled—cold and calculating.
"We'll bait him with truth. With power.And when he finally trusts… we'll remind him why the gods were abandoned in the first place."