The bells of the Monastery of the Shrouded Verse hadn't rung in centuries.
But tonight, they wailed.
Not with sound—but with magic. A pulse that shook the stones, cracked the sigils buried in the walls, and awakened every protective ward etched since the first Age.
Kael stood beneath the broken mirror pedestal, still reeling from the vision. Across the room, Varron's silver eye was burning—brighter than Kael had ever seen it. His fingers danced through the air, tracing warding glyphs in light.
"They're here," Varron said grimly. "The Dreadmarked."
Kael's blood ran cold. "What are they?"
Varron didn't answer.
Instead, the walls began to bleed shadow.
Across the monastery, dozens of hooded figures walked through the outer gates without opening them. Their bodies shimmered like dying stars—unreal, half-formed. Their faces were hidden behind cracked porcelain masks, mouths stitched shut with gold thread.
Where they stepped, the stone decayed.
Where they passed, candles extinguished.
One by one, they began to chant—not with voices, but through resonance. The sound was like bells underwater, pulling at the soul.
Kael could feel his heartbeat slipping into their rhythm. He pressed his hands over his ears—but it wasn't sound. It was in his bones.
"They're unsealing the warding circle," Varron snapped. "This place will collapse. We must reach the central vault."
He didn't wait for agreement. He grabbed Kael's shoulder and uttered a travel-sigil: ∴
In a flash of white light, they vanished—just as the walls exploded inward in a blast of unholy silence.
They reappeared in a vast chamber lined with relics—scrolls, blades, enchanted masks, and artifacts bound in iron and light.
"This is the last vault," Varron said. "Every relic here is a curse, a memory, or a sin."
He tossed Kael a blade.
The moment Kael's hand closed around it, the weapon sang.
It wasn't metal—it was crystal, humming with heatless fire. Runes ran along its edge, matching the glyphs that had burned into Kael's skin two chapters ago.
"What is this?" he asked, stunned.
"Your birthright," Varron said. "The Epochbrand. Forged from the shattered crown of the First God. It will answer only to you."
Before Kael could reply, the far door exploded.
Smoke and silence poured in like water through a broken dam.
And then… they arrived.
Three figures stepped into the vault.
Their masks were different from the others—crafted from living obsidian, rippling with illusions. Their bodies were shrouded in cloaks of shifting shadow, and behind each of them, reality bent unnaturally—like the world itself was trying to reject their existence.
One of them raised a pale hand and spoke—not aloud, but into Kael's mind.
"You are the bearer of the Epochal Core. Return it. Or be unmade."
Kael stepped back. His hand tightened on the Epochbrand. "I don't even understand what it is!"
"Then you are unworthy of it."
They moved.
Varron slammed his staff down and unleashed a wave of golden light. The first Dreadmarked dissolved on impact—but not fully. Its pieces slid back together, like smoke remembering its form.
Kael dodged a pulse of shadow magic—narrowly. The Dreadmarked conjured chains from the cracks in the stone, each glowing with cursed script. They lashed toward Kael.
He raised the Epochbrand.
And the sword drank the spell.
The chains shattered. The blade vibrated with energy, then erupted with a new rune Kael didn't recognize—like the sword was evolving.
Varron turned to Kael mid-battle.
"The blade doesn't just cut. It learns."
Kael didn't hesitate.
He rushed forward, the blade blazing with soulfire, and slashed through the nearest Dreadmarked. The rune flashed—and the creature collapsed in a burst of ash.
But the last one… laughed.
It pulled back its mask.
Kael's heart stopped.
It was his own face—older, bloodstained, with eyes like shattered stars.
"I am you, Kael. The version of you that fulfills the cycle. The one that burns the world to end the lie."
Kael staggered.
"That's not me."
The mirror-Kael smiled. "It will be. Unless you break the chain."
It lunged.
Kael met the strike mid-air.
Their blades clashed. Sparks flew. Visions flooded Kael's mind—of thrones made of bones, of his hands holding crowns, of people bowing and screaming in equal measure.
But then…
He saw his friends.
Faces he had not met yet—laughing. Fighting. Trusting him.
He saw a girl with white hair and storm-magic, grinning with a blade in her teeth.
He saw an academy under the sky of ten moons.
He saw choice.
And Kael chose.
He roared—and drove the blade through his own future's heart.
The Dreadmarked collapsed, screaming not in death—but in regret.
Varron fell to one knee.
Kael rushed to him.
"They'll send more," the old man whispered. "This world has started spinning again, and the Cycle wants you back."
Kael gritted his teeth. "Then I'll run faster."
"No," Varron said. "You'll go to the Academy of Aurorium. You'll learn everything. Make allies. Make legends. Because when the sky cracks again… only gods will stand tall."
And Kael nodded.
Not as a boy.
But as the heir of the Veiled Epoch.