The ruins were alive.
Every stone hummed with memory — low, mournful, and almost human. When Eryndor brushed his fingers along the cracked wall beside him, sparks of light bled out, forming shapes: a sigil, a name, then fading into nothing.
He took a shaky breath.
The air here tasted metallic, charged with faint lightning. Far in the distance, the sky trembled, bleeding orange where a shattered sun struggled to rise.
"This… was our home?"
His voice felt small against the silence.
Behind him, the Noctyrae warriors stood still — a dozen of them, faces half hidden beneath silver-marked hoods. Only their eyes glowed — cold, ancient, almost sorrowful.
One of them stepped forward — a tall woman with obsidian skin and long white braids, carrying a staff carved with flickering runes.
"It was," she said softly. "Before the great bleed. Before the Mother Oil was torn from us."
Eryndor frowned. "The bleed?"
The woman turned to the horizon, where the mist rolled like waves.
"The day the Aurelians fled with the Prime. They called it salvation. We called it theft."
A hollow wind blew through the ruins.
Fragments of gold dust floated past them — the remnants of an age long forgotten. Eryndor felt something stir inside him, a dull ache in his chest that pulsed in rhythm with the faint glow beneath the ground.
He knelt, pressing his hand to the cracked soil. For a heartbeat, he saw visions — blinding towers of light, cities powered by molten essence, and two kings standing on a bridge of flame and thunder, swords drawn.
Then — the collapse.
A scream without sound.
The Mother Oil splitting, rivers of fire consuming everything.
He gasped, pulling back. "I saw it. The fall."
The woman nodded. "Your blood remembers what your mind has forgotten."
Liorath's voice slid into his thoughts, quiet and smooth.
"See how they suffered, Eryndor? All because they trusted the Aurelians. Because they trusted the Vessel."
Eryndor's jaw tightened. "Kael doesn't even know all this… he can't—"
"Ignorance does not absolve the sin."
The echo faded, leaving only the hum of the ancient city.
Eryndor stood, dusting off his palms, and looked toward the largest structure in sight — a broken citadel, half-submerged in the glowing mist.
"What's that place?"
The woman's tone dropped to reverence.
"The Hall of Veins. The heart of Eryndor. Where the last of the kings sealed the essence of our realm. Only one of royal blood may enter."
Her eyes flicked toward him.
Eryndor blinked — uncertain, then unsettled. "You think I'm—"
"Not think. Know." She lowered her head. "You carry the spark of the Vale bloodline — the line of the First King."
The ground beneath them rumbled faintly as if in answer.
The other Noctyrae warriors bowed.
Eryndor stepped back. "I'm… no king."
"Perhaps," she said. "But the realm does not lie."
The citadel gates, sealed for centuries, began to shift. Stone cracked, ancient locks disintegrated into dust. A deep, resonant chord filled the air — a hum that wasn't heard, but felt.
Liorath's whisper brushed his thoughts again.
"Go on, Eryndor. The truth waits for you."
He hesitated — then walked forward. Each step echoed, reverberating through the hollow city. The gates opened fully, revealing a grand hall of light and shadow — walls carved with intricate depictions of the seven oils, each pulsing faintly with its element's hue.
Fire, Ice, Water, Air, Earth, Lightning… and at the center, a seventh sigil — gold and black intertwined. Essentia Prime.
He stopped before it, heart pounding.
The sigil felt alive, watching him.
Memories flickered again — flashes of two children in a burning hall. One crying, one silent.
A hand dragging him away.
A golden light swallowing the other.
Eryndor clenched his fists. "Kael…"
Liorath's voice became silk.
"He inherited what was meant for you. You carry the shadow of the vessel — the balance. That is why you survived. That is why this realm still remembers you."
He touched the sigil. A surge of energy shot through his arm, racing up to his chest. Pain — sharp, divine. His veins glowed faintly crimson and gold. The walls answered, flaring to life — ancient machines awakening with long-lost purpose.
And then, something spoke — not in words, but in resonance.
A voice of the realm itself.
"Son of the Lost Bloodline… bearer of our forgotten light… awaken."
The ground shook. The sigil shattered, releasing a pulse of energy that rippled across the ruins.
Outside, the Noctyrae looked up as the skies cracked open — a burst of lightning crossing the torn heavens, followed by silence.
Eryndor fell to his knees, gasping. His eyes glowed, not golden like Kael's, but molten amber with veins of black running through.
He looked down at his trembling hands, breath heavy. "What did I just—"
"You've awakened your heritage," Liorath whispered. "You've touched the memory of Eryndor itself. You've seen what the world has forgotten."
Eryndor looked toward the ruins, where the once-dull stones now glowed faintly under his touch.
Something inside him shifted — awe, anger, pride, confusion — all tangled together.
"Then I'll learn everything," he murmured. "The truth. The lies. Everything they took."
Liorath's voice was almost approving.
"Yes. Learn, and remember… the light was never pure. It was only the shadow that bore its cost."
Eryndor rose, the golden sigil still flickering on his chest. Outside, the Noctyrae knelt once more, the wind carrying whispers of his name through the broken realm.
And high above the torn sky, something ancient stirred — the Mother Oil itself, faintly responding to a power it hadn't felt in centuries.
Eryndor didn't see it.
But fate had already begun to turn.