Two weeks later.The capital gleamed like a crown of glass and rot.
Vaelgorath—seat of the Empire, city of thrones. From a distance, it was beautiful. Up close, it stank of blood, perfume, and secrets.
Kael had changed.
His eyes were sharper now. His step quieter. The Mark no longer burned, but whispered—always whispering—guiding his instincts like a blade drawn in shadow.
And beside him, Iris watched everything. Everyone. Ready to kill at the flick of his nod.
They walked through the gates not as fugitives—but as guests.
"How long until they realize?" Iris asked.
"They already do," Kael replied. "But they won't say it. Not until they think they have me cornered."
At the top of the grand stair, the Council of Thorns awaited.
Seven figures draped in gold, their faces hidden by ceremonial masks.
And at their center—High Regent Malrion. The man who ruled in the Emperor's absence.
Kael had seen his face once before. When he was a child.In a dream. In a scream.In chains.
"Kael Draven," Malrion said, voice echoing through the hall. "Bastard of the North. Outlaw. Son of nothing. You return to us uninvited… and yet, here you stand."
"I'm not here to beg," Kael replied. "I'm here for answers. And a seat at the table."
The council laughed. But Malrion did not.
"And what gives you the right to demand anything from this Empire?"
Kael stepped forward.
"The blood in my veins."
"You mean the blood of treason?"
"I mean the blood you buried," Kael snapped. "I know what I am now. You tried to erase it. But truth doesn't burn that easy."
The room shifted. Power crackled. Even the guards stepped back.
"What are you, boy?" one of the masked Councilors asked.
Kael removed his glove. Held up his marked hand.The flame-symbol shimmered with divine heat, glowing through skin.
"I'm what you feared. The prophecy you locked away. The bastard who came back."
The air trembled.
One of the Councilors—an old woman—collapsed in her chair. Whispered something about "the Binder's return."
Malrion stood still.
"You're bluffing."
"Test me," Kael said coldly. "Strike me down, and see what crawls out of the corpse."
That night, they gave him a room in the royal wing.
Not as a guest. Not quite a prisoner.But everyone could feel it: a storm had entered the palace.
Midnight.
Kael stood at the window, staring out at the city.
"They'll try to kill you," Iris said softly.
"I'm counting on it."
"And if they succeed?"
Kael turned to her. The flames in his eyes barely flickered.
"Then the world will burn without me."
Suddenly, the shadows shifted.
A blade whistled through the air. Iris moved, but not fast enough.
Kael's hand caught the assassin's wrist—bare-handed—and flame erupted across the intruder's skin.
They screamed. Collapsed. Smoke curled from their bones.
Kael didn't blink.
From the window behind the corpse, another figure emerged.
A girl. No older than seventeen. Pale skin. Black eyes. Tattoos like inked lightning.
"I told him not to try," she said, climbing down the curtain like a spider. "You don't kill fire with shadows."
"Who are you?" Kael asked.
"Name's Nira," she smirked. "I'm not here to kill you. I'm here to help you take the throne."
"And why would I want that?"
"Because your enemies already think you do. Might as well make it true."
She tossed something onto the floor.
A scroll. Sealed with the royal crest.A death order—for Kael Draven. Signed by Malrion.
"They're afraid," Nira whispered. "That makes them stupid. And desperate."
"So what do you want in return?" Kael asked.
"When you rise," she said, licking blood from her blade, "don't forget who helped light the fire."
As she vanished into the dark, Kael looked down at the scroll.
"They want war," he muttered.
"Then let's give them one."