The wind that passed through the ruins carried more than dust and memories—it carried power. Deep within the undercroft of the shattered palace, where ancient roots broke through stone and flickering glyphs painted the walls in forgotten language, Kael stood in silence.
"Are you sure it's safe?" Ronan asked, his hand resting on the hilt of his longsword.
Kael nodded, eyes fixed on the crystal altar before him. "Safe? No. But necessary."
The altar pulsed with an eerie violet light—an echo of the goddess's divine core, a fragment far older and darker than the one Kael had touched before.
Mira stood beside her brother, fingers tightly clasped, her gaze wary. "This magic... it speaks. I don't like how it says your name."
Kael placed his palm on the altar. It hissed.
Memories not his own flooded his mind—legends of kings burned alive for misusing this vein of power, of forbidden rituals and gods that turned their backs. But Kael endured.
Glyphs leapt from the stone, wrapping around his arms like serpents of light. Pain burst across his spine, and he staggered. Lyssa rushed forward, catching him before he fell.
"You're pushing too hard," she whispered. Her voice cracked with emotion she tried to mask.
Kael met her gaze. "If I don't push, we lose. We need to awaken Arden's roots."
The power didn't stop. Instead, it chose him.
When it ended, Kael rose with glowing lines along his arms and collarbone. The crystal dimmed, drained, yet satisfied.
A new power bloomed in his core: Veinweaving.
"Let Selene bring her armies," he said. "I'll rewrite the ley-lines themselves."
Behind him, Mira stared—silent, pale. And Lyssa? She smiled... but her fingers tightened around her dagger again