Velkaris no longer mourned.
The once-shattered city that had burned during the invasion now stood eerily pristine. Streets were swept clean. Spires that had once cracked and fallen were rebuilt with bone-white stone. Banners no longer bore the sigil of House Draeven—the moon entwined with flame—but instead a black sun wreathed in silver fire.
Kael stood on the edge of the forest, hidden by illusion, cloaked in silence. The others crouched beside him.
"What… is this?" Seraphine whispered.
Ezren narrowed his eyes. "Someone's rebuilt the capital in weeks. That's not magic. That's madness."
Veyra stepped forward, lips curling in disgust. "No. That's demoncraft. I can feel the stone breathing."
Kael's pulse thundered.
This was not his kingdom. And yet…
The ground recognized him.
They entered through the catacombs beneath the eastern wall—passages once used by Kael's mother to escape as a girl. Veyra led the way, silent and sure. She had walked these tunnels before, long ago, when she served the queen in secret.
When they emerged beneath the old library, Kael expected ruin.
Instead, he found worship.
Torches burned blue in sconces carved with infernal runes. Devotees knelt in circles, chanting in an ancient tongue.
And at the center of the room stood a statue—of Kael.
Seraphine's breath caught. "That's… you."
But it wasn't.
The figure had Kael's face—but sharper. Crueler. Eyes like void. And coiled around his arms and chest were flames made not of fire, but shadow.
Beneath the statue, carved into the pedestal, were words in Old Demonic.
Ezren translated, voice tight:
"To the Crownless King.
He who bears the true flame.
He who will break the Veil and unseat the false line."
Kael's voice was hollow. "They think I'm already here."
"No," said a voice from the shadows. "They think he's the real you."
The figure stepped into the torchlight.
Tall, elegant, dressed in dark robes threaded with silver. His hair was snow-white, eyes glowing faintly with a flicker of lavender flame.
Kael froze.
Because he felt it in his blood.
This man was kin.
The stranger smiled. "I was wondering when you'd crawl back, little brother."
Ezren drew his blade. "Name yourself."
The man didn't even flinch. "I am Lucen. Born of the true fire. Bled from the First Flame before your cradle ever saw moonlight."
Kael stared at him. "That's not possible."
Lucen smiled thinly. "Isn't it? You think you were the only heir cast away to keep the Hollowed from finding us? There were seven of us. You were the weakest. So they buried your power and gave you to a queen of wolves."
Seraphine stepped between them. "That queen raised him with love. Your words mean nothing."
Lucen's eyes flared. "And yet here I stand—with the Third Flame. While he begs for scraps of memory."
He extended his hand—and from his palm rose a flame so dark it made the torches flicker and shrink.
The final Flame of Origin.
Bound in shadow.
Kael stepped forward. "If you have the flame, why haven't you opened the Veil?"
Lucen's smile faded. "Because I need the key. And it lies in your cursed blood. The queen who bore you marked you as the Lock—so only your hand can shatter the seal."
Kael's blood turned cold.
"You were never meant to wield the Flames," Lucen said. "You were meant to open the way. A tool. A sacrifice."
Ezren snarled. "He's not your key. He's a king."
Lucen's expression soured. "Then let's see if he bleeds like one."
He raised his hand—and the chamber exploded with flame.
They fought.
Lucen's magic twisted the air. Black fire, like tar and lightning, surged from his fingertips.
Kael countered with Varenth, which blazed with the two flames inside him—earth and sea, heat and memory.
Their blades met with a sound that bent the world.
Veyra flanked Lucen, daggers spinning, but the shadows themselves caught her mid-strike.
Seraphine loosed arrows of starlight, one grazing Lucen's cheek—but it only made him laugh.
"You've learned to fight," Lucen said. "Good. It will make your death mean more."
Kael roared and unleashed the twin flames inside him, sending a torrent of blue-white fire crashing into Lucen's chest.
Lucen staggered—burned, but smiling.
"It's starting," he whispered. "The Veil trembles."
And then, with a word in a forgotten tongue, he vanished.
Silence fell.
The statue cracked. The cultists were gone. The torches went dark.
And Kael collapsed to his knees.
Seraphine knelt beside him. "Are you all right?"
Kael's hands shook. "He's my brother. And he has the last flame."
Ezren cursed. "Then we take it."
Veyra looked toward the statue's broken remnants. "If he's telling the truth, you were never meant to live."
Kael looked up.
Eyes steady.
"Then I'll defy fate itself. I'm not their Lock. I'm their End."
Far away, beyond the mountains, in a temple forgotten by maps, the Veil cracked.
A sliver.
Just enough.
And through it, something watched.
Not Lucen. Not the Hollowed.
But something older.
Something waiting.
And it whispered in a voice made of ice and flame:
"The fire returns. The heir wakes. And the Gate shall bleed."