The wind had changed.
On the cliffs above Caer Sorrow, the air that once stank of rot and silence now carried the sharp scent of broken magic—ozone and stone, as if the earth itself had snapped a bone and was leaking something divine.
The sky bled at the edges. Not from rain.
But from omens.
Atop a crumbling tower, a figure stood cloaked in violet ash.
He wore no crown.
Only rusted nails, hammered through the horns curling from his temples.
Behind him stood seven others.
Tall. Thin. Wrapped in armor made of flesh and ruin.
The Sealed Choir had sung once.
But the Rusted Kings had never stopped marching.
"They sealed it," said the horned figure, his voice slow and ancient. "The girl and the half-blood."
One of the others stepped forward, mouth sewn shut with golden wire. His eye burned blue.
He did not speak.
The horned one nodded. "Yes. He was always meant to. The Blade of the Wound… and the Key to Memory."
Another figure dropped to a knee.
"She bears the Mark."
A pause.
The wind hissed.
The horned one—King Elos of the Seventh Silence—raised one hand.
"The Deep Path has gone quiet. But the old hunger still stirs elsewhere."
He turned.
Below them, armies moved.
Not soldiers.
Not quite.
Creatures clad in bone, their faces stitched with runes, their hands replaced with instruments of war.
"Eltherra is next."
Meanwhile, miles below, in the waning hours of dawn, Valen and Lyra emerged from the Deep Path's chapel.
Neither spoke for a time.
Their clothes were torn, their boots caked in salt and dust.
The seal held.
But the world around them had shifted.
"Do you feel that?" Lyra asked.
Valen nodded. "Something's responding."
"To what?"
"To us."
They walked in silence through the ruins of Caer Sorrow. The faces in the stone were still now. Watching, but no longer whispering.
At the city's broken gate, Valen stopped.
A rider approached.
The horse was skeletal, but not undead—its bones shone like crystal, and mist trailed from its eyes.
The rider wore black.
Not armor.
Robes.
And on his chest: the sigil of the Sanctum of Ashen Veils.
A peacekeeper. A war-preacher. A Seeker.
He dismounted and removed his hood.
Revealing a young man—barely older than Lyra—with a face too perfect to be human.
He bowed. "I greet you in the name of the Nameless Flame."
Valen's eyes narrowed. "You're far from Sanctum lands."
"Yes," said the rider. "Because the gods are further."
Lyra tilted her head. "Meaning?"
The rider smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "The gods no longer speak from the heavens. They whisper from the cracks."
He looked at Lyra.
"You're the girl with the Mark."
She stepped back instinctively.
Valen stepped forward.
"What do you want?"
"A warning," said the rider. "The sealing of the Deep Path has awakened a war long buried."
"We've seen war."
The rider shook his head. "Not like this. The Rusted Kings ride again. And you… Valen Nocturne… are the first name on their list."
They camped on the outskirts of the ruins that night, in a hollow between jagged stones.
Lyra poked the fire, watching embers drift upward like dying stars.
"You believe him?" she asked.
Valen looked at the moon. "Yes."
"But why now? The Deep Path's sealed. Shouldn't that stop things?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he said, "Do you know what the Rusted Kings are?"
Lyra shook her head.
He stared into the fire.
"Once, they were heroes. Chosen by cities and sanctuaries to defend the last bastions of humanity. But something broke them. Or maybe they broke themselves. Now, they serve no one. No god. No law. Only purpose."
She swallowed. "What purpose?"
"To see the world shattered open. So that nothing can ever be forgotten again."
In the morning, they left Caer Sorrow.
The land was colder.
Even the birds that returned after the seal had gone silent again.
And far across the valley, the storm clouds gathered—not black, but rust-colored.
As if the sky itself was decaying.
They traveled north, toward Eltherra—a city built into the bones of a dragon that had once ruled the skies.
A city that still sang the old hymns.
A city next on the Rusted Kings' path.
At a midpoint village—Dustmere—they stopped for rest.
But rest didn't come.
The villagers were pale. Silent.
Not in fear.
In worship.
Of what, Valen couldn't tell.
Until a child passed by, clutching a small idol.
A face. With no eyes.
Just a mouth, stretched open.
A perfect replica of the First Choir.
He grabbed the child gently. "Where did you get this?"
The boy blinked. "The bells gave them. From the mountain."
Lyra froze. "But the mountain is sealed."
Valen's grip tightened.
"No," he whispered. "Only one gate is sealed."
That night, the stars fell.
Not many.
Just one.
But it landed near Dustmere with a sound like glass breaking across the sky.
Valen watched the smoke rise from the crater.
He didn't sleep.
And in the darkness, a voice returned.
"Echoes always come home."