Far south of Highrest, where the rivers ran black with soot and the air bore the scent of smelted coin, the city of Vellmar stirred. It was once a capital—shining with gold leaf and marble spires. Now it rotted under the weight of ambition.
The city's skyline was broken by chimneys, iron spires, and blackened towers that leaned like tired giants. Markets pulsed with the sound of shouted bargains and clinking metal. There were no songs in Vellmar, only the chorus of commerce and the groan of wheels grinding stone. Children played in alleys where plague carts once rolled. The sewers steamed with warmth not of the earth, but of factories that ran without rest.
In a high chamber lined with mirrors and broken swords, a man sat on a throne that was not his. The walls whispered with old battles and reflected every movement like a judgment. He wore no crown, only chains—thick, etched, and silent. Around his neck, they coiled like a serpent awaiting a command. His throne was carved from shattered shields, and beneath it, iron roots reached deep into the floor.
He was called The Chainfather.
Before him knelt three men in noble silks, each bearing the insignia of a different fallen kingdom. They were kings once, or sons of kings, now reduced to messengers and pawns.
"They light fires in the north," one said, trembling.
"A forge. A bannerless keep," said another.
"They call it Highrest again," the last whispered, as if naming it summoned ghosts.
The Chainfather did not speak. He rose, each link of chain shifting like the steps of a giant. His face was hidden behind a veil of black thread, and when he moved, it was with the grace of one who no longer feared death—because he'd already killed it. His presence filled the room with weight. Not heat, not light—just gravity, as though the room bowed to him.
"They want to build," he said softly, almost kindly. "But they do not understand..."
He raised a gloved hand. A finger curled.
"...the dead do not build. They bury."
With that motion, the kneeling nobles screamed—each collapsing as their hearts gave out. No blade had touched them. The chains had whispered their names the night before. And when the Chainfather whispers, death listens.
Elsewhere in the city, couriers moved quickly. Letters sealed in wax marked with chain-links were dispatched to cells, guilds, and spies. The Chainfather's words were few, but they did not go unheard. His eyes turned north. Highrest had lit its fires, and Vellmar would answer not with fire—but with ash.
Back at Highrest, Sorren walked the moonlit corridor of the old archives, tracing the grooves of Kael's sigil etched into the stone. Dust stirred beneath his fingers, and above him, the stars seemed to press closer, as if listening.
"You've made enemies," Voren said from behind him.
"I've made echoes," Sorren corrected. "The enemies made themselves."
Voren stepped beside him. "And if the Chainfather comes?"
"Then we give him a name that will not kneel."
By morning, the skies had cleared. Smoke from the forge rose steadily, not in violence but in purpose. The clang of hammers was not frantic, but rhythmic. Builders and smiths worked side by side. Farmers turned the dead courtyards into soil. A place once known for loss was learning the language of becoming.
Caedren gathered the people in the courtyard. Children, widows, swordsmen, bricklayers, oathbreakers, healers. He raised the satchel of scrolls high.
"These are the words they tried to erase," he said. "This is the truth they buried beneath palaces and gold. But here, in the north, truth grows roots again."
He opened a scroll, worn but still legible. It was a song.
The Last Ballad of Kael.
He read it aloud. The words spoke of a man who tore down kings but refused to rule. A man who burned no village but set fire to lies. A man whose sword was silent but whose footsteps still echoed in the bones of mountains.
As he read, a hush fell. No wind, no cry. Only breath, shared by a people awakening.
When Caedren finished, no one clapped. No one cheered. Instead, one by one, they stood—every last soul in the courtyard—and placed their hand to their chest. Not as a salute. But as a vow.
A child whispered, "Let it be so."
An old mason repeated it. Then a blacksmith. Then a mother.
"Let it be so."
Across the walls, the phrase echoed, soft and solid.
Far above them, in the broken spire, a raven watched. Its eyes shimmered with something more than bird's light. Then it took wing—heading south, into the waiting dark.
Toward Vellmar.
Toward war.