Riven gasped and collapsed onto the chapel floor.
His hand shot to his chest—burning. Beneath his skin, the shape of a sigil pulsed faintly: a circular crest marked with a fang and crescent. It was the same as the symbol carved into the base of the stone.
Elara knelt beside him, her face pale. "What did you see?"
He sat up slowly, his breath shallow. "A battlefield. A dying werewolf. And him—Aamon. He placed the stone inside the prince. Called it the Lunarch Heart."
Elara's eyes widened. "That name... it's in the records I found. But it was listed as a myth. A fragment of celestial essence, torn from the first moon."
She helped him to his feet, glancing warily at the now-dormant stone. "According to the old tomes, the Lunarch Heart was never a weapon. It was a memory crystal—something born from time itself. The legend said it could anchor the soul of a dying being, even if their timeline was erased."
Riven nodded. "That prince... I think he became the first of our kind."
"You mean...?"
"I think the werewolf curse didn't start with a bite." He looked at his hands, still clawed. "It started with that."
Elara began pacing. "That explains the transformation—why it's happening outside the full moon. You've been... awakened. The stone recognizes you. Maybe you carry the same bloodline. Maybe... the same fate."
"And the remnant?" Riven asked.
She stopped. "What if Aamon wasn't just a king of monsters? What if he was the first remnant? One who refused to die when time erased him."
A heavy silence followed. The air inside the chapel grew colder.
Then the sigil on Riven's chest flared again—burning, searing.
He dropped to one knee, groaning. His mouth opened—
And a voice not his own spoke from within him.
"The Rift remembers. The blood is not yet spilled. The moon will break again."
Then he collapsed.
Elara caught him before he hit the floor.
His body was hot—burning from the inside out. The sigil on his chest pulsed like a second heart, matching the cadence of the stone still resting silently on the altar. She pressed a stabilizing rune to his neck, her fingers trembling.
The voice that had spoken through him had not been Riven's. It echoed with centuries, laced with something older than language.
Something royal.
Something damned.
"You're connected to him," she whispered. "Aamon... somehow."
Riven's eyes fluttered open, golden and dim. "I felt him inside my mind. Like a shadow of me. Not controlling... but remembering."
Elara stood, stepping away from him, gaze fixed on the Lunarch Heart.
"We need to get it out of here," she said.
"No," he replied, forcing himself upright. "It doesn't want to leave. Not yet. But it's awakened now. Whatever slumber it was in... we ended it."
Elara's hand hovered over her glyph-ring, activating a spectral lens. "I'm calling down a containment vault from the arcane tower. If we can't take it, we'll lock it. For now."
Riven nodded. "And then we find out what Aamon was really doing when he gave that prince the Heart."
She opened her mouth to respond—but froze.
Outside the chapel, the wind had stopped.
Dead stillness.
Then—footsteps.
Not walking. Gliding.
Riven rose slowly. The sigil on his chest flared once more, but dimmer now, like a beacon fading.
From the ruined entryway, a figure emerged. Wrapped in burial cloth. Its eyes glowed faintly blue. Its mouth hung open in a silent scream.
A remnant.
Drawn by the activation of the Lunarch Heart.
Elara's voice was a whisper.
"…They're coming."