The sky above Menagerie Hold was wrong.
Vaelrik knew it the moment they crossed the ridgeline. Zephyrion circled high above, wings stretched wide, his flight silent but uneasy. Skarn growled low beside him, claws gouging deep ruts into the stone. Even Valgrin, who rarely flinched before anything, hissed and spread his wings, flame coiling along his scales.
Smoke rose from the hold below.
Not the thick, black smoke of war. This smoke was pale, almost white, rising in thin columns from the walls of the newly crowned fortress. The wind carried no scent of blood or burning wood. Instead, there was a sharpness to the air. Something metallic. Something old.
Vaelrik did not slow his pace. His cloak snapped behind him, eyes locked on the gates below. There were no guards. No watchers. Just silence.
Menagerie Hold had fallen quiet.
They reached the outer wall within the hour. Skarn climbed the ramparts first, leaping from stone to stone. Vaelrik followed on foot, Zephyrion landing in the clearing beyond with a gust of wind that sent dust and ash into the sky.
The gates stood open.
Vaelrik stepped through.
What met him was not ruin. Not blood. Not battle.
It was stillness.
The courtyard was empty. Weapons lay abandoned, shields left leaning against walls. A meal sat unfinished on a long table near the forge, steam still rising from the cup beside it.
Whatever had happened, it had been swift.
"Spread out," Vaelrik said, his voice sharp.
Skarn moved to the left, sniffing the ground, his growl constant. Valgrin took to the air, wings beating once before lifting him over the walls. Zephyrion stayed close, head cocked slightly, watching the buildings as if they might come alive.
Vaelrik moved toward the keep.
The doors were ajar. He pushed them wide and entered, footsteps echoing on the stone. Torches still burned in their sconces. The hall was untouched. And yet the feeling clawed at him.
Wrong.
He passed through the corridors, eyes scanning for any sign of struggle. There were none. No blood. No broken furniture. Just that same strange scent in the air. Iron, smoke, and something else.
Old dust.
He turned the final corner toward the throne room and stopped.
Something waited there.
It stood tall, cloaked in tattered robes of gray and gold, its face hidden beneath a hood. In one hand, it held a staff of gnarled wood, twisted with rusted chains. The other hand was bare, pale, and marked with a sigil Vaelrik did not know.
Behind it, in the center of the hall, lay his men. Unconscious. Breathing, but still. Not wounded. Not dead. As if they had simply fallen asleep.
Vaelrik stepped forward slowly.
"Who are you?"
The figure tilted its head.
Its voice came like wind through dry leaves.
"I am the one who waits for crowns not yet forged. I am the herald of dominion yet to come."
Vaelrik's hand went to the Brand. It pulsed, faint but steady.
"You touched my realm," Vaelrik said. "You are not welcome."
The figure did not move.
"I did not come to take. Only to witness. The world turns, Sovereign. And not all who walk it kneel to crowns."
Vaelrik narrowed his eyes.
"You speak in riddles. Speak plain or leave."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then the figure lifted the staff and pointed toward the hall's far end.
There, etched into the stone, was a new mark.
A crown, yes. But beneath it, not the sigil of Vaelrik's Brand. A different crown. Cracked. Shattered.
The figure's voice came again.
"Not all beasts can be crowned. Some wake. Some remember. The Menagerie is not alone."
Vaelrik stepped forward.
The figure vanished.
No sound. No flash of power. One moment it stood there. The next, the hall was empty.
Vaelrik stood still for a long time.
The air was cold now. The scent gone.
Behind him, his men began to stir.
He stared at the mark on the stone.
And for the first time since his rise, the Sovereign Brand pulsed with something more than hunger.
It pulsed with warning.
The mark did not fade.
Vaelrik stood before it, silent, his hand brushing the stone where the shattered crown had been carved. The lines were deep, cut not by chisel or blade, but by something older. The stone felt cold beneath his touch, colder than it should.
Behind him, the first of his warriors stirred.
One by one they rose, confused, disoriented. Their eyes darted around the hall, hands reaching for weapons that were not needed. None remembered what had happened. None had seen the figure. Only Vaelrik.
Skarn entered the hall with a low growl, eyes locking on the mark. Valgrin followed, wings folding as he landed atop the throne's high arch. Zephyrion lingered at the doorway, feathers bristling, sensing the tension.
Vaelrik turned to them.
The throne room was quiet now, the last echoes of battle fading into silence. The iron scent of blood still lingered, but the fight was done. Vaelrik stood at the center, surrounded by broken stone and fallen chains.
A few of his scouts waited at the base of the throne... the last of the humans who had followed him through the siege.
One of them stepped forward, bruised and bloodied. "We're ready to start rebuilding, if you give the order."
Vaelrik looked around the ruined chamber, then at the beasts gathering in the shadows.
"No," he said. "This place… it's not for you. Not yet."
The scout hesitated. "You're staying alone?"
"With them," Vaelrik replied, eyes on Skarn and Forge. "The Hold will grow through crown and beast. Not men."
Silence.
Then Vaelrik stepped down from the throne, placing a hand on the scout's shoulder.
"You've done your part. Leave this place. Survive. When the time comes, if it comes, I'll send for you."
The scouts nodded, uncertain but obedient. One by one, they slipped from the chamber, leaving Vaelrik behind with the crowned and the silence of a Hold that was his alone.
The warriors obeyed, though confusion clouded their faces.
Vaelrik walked through the Hold as the sun began to set. The pale smoke that had lingered earlier was gone, but the air still felt heavy. Uneasy.
He made his way to the outer ramparts. The land stretched out before him, vast and untouched. Yet something had changed. The world no longer felt still. It waited, poised on the edge of motion.
The Brand pulsed again.
Not with hunger. Not with power.
With memory.
Vaelrik closed his eyes and let it guide him.
In his mind, the Vaulting opened. Not the realm he had shaped, but a flicker of something older, something buried deep within the Brand itself. He stood upon a plain of ash, skyless, silent. Before him, a beast.
Not one he had crowned.
It was immense, far larger than Skarn or Valgrin, even Zephyrion. Its form shifted, indistinct. Parts of it were stone, others fire, and some seemed formed of pure void. Its eyes were many, flickering like dying stars.
It spoke, though not with words.
A name pressed against Vaelrik's mind.
The First Crown.
He stepped back. The image shattered. The Vaulting closed. He was on the ramparts once more, breath shallow.
Skarn appeared beside him, silent. Vaelrik looked down at the beast, then at the horizon.
"There is more to this than thrones and crowns."
Skarn said nothing, but his eyes glowed faintly. Understanding, perhaps. Or warning.
Vaelrik turned away.
The world was waking. And some crowns, it seemed, were not meant to be worn.
But he would take them anyway.
Even if it meant war with the past itself.