Wyrmspire stood quiet for the first time in days.
Smoke curled from scorched ramparts, ashes danced like snow on the wind, and the once-crimson banners now fluttered pale and tattered beneath the dawn.
Kael stood on the highest tower of the citadel, overlooking the ruined courtyard. His cloak whipped in the breeze, and the golden runes still faintly glowed beneath his skin. Though the battle was won, he could feel it:
The world had changed.
And so had he.
A Kingdom Without a Crown
Torren barged into the hall like a storm on legs, helmet tucked under his arm and a scroll between his teeth.
"You're brooding again," he said. "That's either noble or foolish. Still can't tell which."
Kael gave a soft grunt. "Wyrmspire needs a new ruler."
Torren raised a brow. "And here I thought you were the obvious choice."
"I'm not even a full-blooded werewolf," Kael replied. "Half demon, son of a king who wasn't even my father. I've no claim."
"You've no need for one," Torren growled. "The people follow you because they saw you burn the sky and come back whole."
Kael looked at his reflection in the broken mirror. His face was still handsome, but wearier. Sharper.
"I don't want to be king," he admitted.
But deep inside, a flame flickered.
He didn't want to rule. But he wanted to protect.
A Letter from Dust
Down in the ruined library, Seraphine dusted off the last sealed chest her father had hidden. Inside, beneath layers of false books and shattered glyphs, lay a letter.
The parchment was marked with a sigil Kael had never seen—two crossed wings wrapped in flame, unlike any crest of Wyrmspire.
She brought it to Kael with shaking hands. "I think… this is from your real father."
Kael's eyes widened. He opened it with care. The ink shimmered faintly, laced with demonic sigils.
My son,
If you are reading this, the first gate has opened. And you have lived.
Your mother was right to hide you. We failed to stop the Chains of Night. The others scattered. I sealed the Heartflame before Lucen could corrupt it.
But beware the woman with ember eyes.
She walks again.
Kael's fingers trembled.
The name at the bottom was blurred—but part of it remained:
"…ius of the Crimson Court."
Ezren entered the room at that moment, pale and winded.
"There's something else," the mage said. "A hidden chamber beneath the throne room just opened. It's filled with demonsteel relics… and a map."
"A map?" Kael asked.
Ezren nodded. "Of kingdoms we thought were myths. Places untouched by light or flame. And symbols for seven seals."
Kael's mouth went dry. "Seals of what?"
Ezren hesitated. Then whispered:
"Gods."
The Silence Before the Storm
That night, Kael stood alone on the old watchtower. He could feel the heartbeat of the land. Wyrmspire's pulse. The bones of the mountain, the quiet cries of the children they buried.
Seraphine found him there, cloak wrapped tight.
"You don't sleep anymore," she said softly.
Kael didn't answer.
"You're thinking about the woman with ember eyes," she added.
"She was watching us. I felt it."
Seraphine leaned against him. "Then we watch her back."
He looked at her—bloodstained, tired, fierce.
"How are you real?" he whispered.
She smiled faintly. "I used to ask myself the same."
They stood in silence. Two fractured souls lit by moonlight.
But in Kael's mind, the sigil from the letter burned.
The Crimson Court.
His true family might still be out there.
And the war might not be over.
In the Ruins of the Veil
Far away, beneath the stone and time, the ember-eyed woman stood before a black monolith wrapped in ancient chains. She held a single silver key made of starlight and bone.
"The prince survived," she said.
A voice echoed from the stone: ancient, layered, and cruel.
"Then it begins again."
She placed the key into the lock.
The seal cracked.