Alric staggered to his feet.
The dream clung to him like smoke, as if his lungs had drunk the fire of Salomon's pyre. His skin burned, but his body was whole. His heartbeat thundered like war drums, and beneath the rhythm—something else.
The ring.
It pulsed, not in time with his blood, but against it. A second will. A second heart. A chain coiling itself around his spirit.
The voice of Dafros.
"I am not gone."
Alric staggered back. The chamber was silent, empty but for the echo of whispers. Yet the air was thick, heavy, as if a thousand unseen figures pressed close, suffocating him with their expectation.
The walls wept black water. Torches bent inward, as if drawn toward him, their flames bowing before the ring.
"You carry his name. You carry his crown. And you will carry his war."
"No." His own voice broke against the silence. "I am not Salomon. I will not be your vessel."
The ring throbbed—once—and he fell to his knees as visions flooded him.
Cities crumbling like sandcastles in a tide. Rivers boiling into steam. Armies chanting in tongues that seared the mind. A throne of corpses. A sun black as pitch.
And always, at the center—Dafros.
A shadow that bled, a mouth without face, hands without flesh, dragging chains behind him like veins torn from the earth itself.
"You think you dream," Dafros hissed. "But I dream you. Every breath you take is mine."
Alric clawed at his finger, trying to rip the ring free. It would not move. It had never been meant to be removed.
His scream this time was real—and it brought footsteps.
The door burst open.
Riven, captain of his guard, stormed in with sword drawn. His eyes widened as he saw the young king writhing on the floor. Behind him came the court seer, her veil damp with sweat though no heat lingered in the hall.
"My king!" Riven dropped beside him, seizing his shoulders. "What curse is this?"
Alric's mouth worked, but what escaped was not his voice.
"Chaos does not kneel."
The seer staggered back, nearly dropping her staff. Her voice trembled. "It has begun… the shadow has chosen…"
Alric gasped, fighting to reclaim his throat. "No—it's not me! It's not—"
But his hands betrayed him. They moved without his command, rising like a priest's in benediction. And the torches flared, every flame turning black.
The chamber shook. Dust rained from the ceiling. From the ring came a crackling sound—like laughter ground to ash.
Dafros was no longer a whisper.
He was awake.