For hours, Kaen did not move. He remained on the floor of the Archmage's chambers, a hollowed-out man wearing a king's face. The news of Lord Korvin's suicide had shattered something within him. It was the chilling realization that he had become a seamless cog in Rael's machine of cruelty. He had pulled a lever, and the machine had performed its function exactly as its creator had designed. The guilt was a physical presence, a cold, heavy shroud.
Mimic remained wrapped around his shoulders, its usual theatrics replaced by an uncharacteristic, weighted stillness. Kaen had walled himself inside his own catatonic terror. If every decision he made led to ruin, then the only safe choice was to make no choice at all.
"You cannot stay here forever, little king," Mimic finally whispered, the voice gentle, stripped of its usual flair. "The world does not stop turning simply because you are afraid of your own shadow."
"It's not my shadow I'm afraid of," Kaen rasped, his voice raw. "It's his. I feel him, Mimic. I'm afraid that if I keep pretending to be him, one day I'll forget I'm pretending."
"Then stop pretending," the cloak responded simply. "And start learning. You are a ghost in this world, Kaen Vale. You know nothing of its history, its pain. If you wish to avoid breaking more of this world, you must first understand how it was broken."
The logic was sharp, undeniable. He couldn't undo what he had done, but he could refuse to remain ignorant. A fragile resolve took root. He pushed himself to his feet.
"I want to know everything," he declared. "Everything about the man I killed."
Minutes later, a terrified, stoop-shouldered man, the Keeper of the Royal Archives, was ushered in. The Archives were a cavernous chamber holding not just books but glowing, resonant crystals and whispering scrolls. The Keeper retrieved a heavy tome.
"House Ferros was minor but ancient, Your Majesty," he squeaked. "Their grievance with the Temple of Vaelor dates back two centuries." He went on to explain their confiscated lands, their crime against the temple, and the absolute power of the gods since the Divine Culling. To defy a god was to risk the erasure of one's soul.
The weight of it all pressed down on Kaen. He had triggered the downfall of a man trapped between a vengeful god and a merciless king. He closed the book.
"I am going out," he announced.
"Where, my king?" Drevan asked cautiously.
"To the funeral of Lord Korvin Ferros."
The journey from the Spire was a descent into the reality of Rael's rule. Vel'thaemar was a vertical kingdom. The upper levels were pristine, inhabited by mages and nobles who offered masks of disciplined respect. But as they descended via a massive, magically operated lift, the city changed.
The air grew thick with the smoke of Pyreth-forges and the chaotic, vibrant energy of the masses. Here, the reaction to his presence was starkly different. The moment his banner was spotted, the boisterous energy of the street evaporated. A mother snatched her child from the road, her eyes wide with animal terror. A maimed veteran spat on the ground, his gaze burning with pure hatred. So this is what it means to wear the crown of a monster, Kaen thought, a cold hollowness spreading through his chest. Not reverence—recoil.
Finally, they reached the lowest residential district and the modest Ferros manor. A black wreath hung on the door. Inside, a handful of grim-faced family members stood vigil. A wave of fear and revulsion washed through the room at his arrival.
Ignoring their glares, Kaen walked to the simple casket where Lord Korvin lay. He stood there for a long moment, the silent accusations of the mourners like physical blows. Then, in a slow, deliberate motion that drew every eye in the room, he removed one of his black leather gloves. The act felt monumental, a shedding of the untouchable persona of the Archmage. He reached out and placed his bare hand on the cool, dark wood of the casket—a simple, human touch. A silent apology. An acceptance of his part in this.
A figure in a dark, veiled gown detached herself from the shadows. Lady Nyx Virelia.
"I am surprised to see you here," she said, her voice a low murmur only he could hear. "The old Rael treated his broken tools like trash to be discarded."
"I am not the old Rael," Kaen said, his voice flat.
"No," she agreed, her eyes studying the bare hand he still had resting on the casket. "You're not. He collected broken things because he enjoyed the sound they made when they shattered." She paused. "You… you seem to feel their weight."
Nyx gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod and melted back into the shadows, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Later, as they ascended back to the pristine, cold silence of the Spire, Kaen felt a profound shift within himself. The journey had not absolved his guilt, but it had transformed it. The numbness was gone, replaced by a cold, hard clarity.
He finally understood. A name could be a crown or a noose. A title could be a throne or a tombstone. He couldn't escape Rael's legacy—the face he wore, the power he faked, the fear he inspired. But the weight of a name, he realized with a grim and terrible resolve, was whatever you chose to make of it. And he would no longer let Rael's name crush him. He would carry it. And he would change what it meant.