The throne room of Cael'Vareth stood quiet, the echoes of its dark past lingering in every shadowed corner. Once a beacon of light and majesty, it now pulsed with a quiet dread—an ancient weight heavy in the air, as if the walls themselves whispered secrets long forgotten.
Kael stood before the obsidian throne, its surface gleaming with the faint glow of crimson runes. His fingers traced the markings, feeling the warmth of power beneath them. Each rune was a memory—a victory, a betrayal, a soul taken in blood. The throne was not merely a symbol of rule. It was a pact. A promise to the Abyss.
Behind him, Sylas approached silently. The former high inquisitor moved with the grace of a shadow, his eyes wary. "You feel it too, don't you?" he asked.
Kael nodded. "Something ancient lies beneath. This throne… it watches."
"Not watches," Sylas corrected, "It remembers."
They had claimed Cael'Vareth from the tyrant lords of the West, breaking their siege with fire and voidsteel. Yet the victory came at a price. Soldiers now whispered of voices in the dark, dreams soaked in blood, and eyes that watched from mirrors. The deeper Kael delved into the Abyssal magic, the louder the whispers became.
He sat on the throne.
The world blurred.
A flash of darkness.
A scream. A child's laughter. A blade.
Kael jerked upright, sweat beading on his brow.
"It's feeding you something," Sylas murmured.
"No," Kael whispered, "It's showing me what's to come."
In that vision, he had seen a battlefield drenched in crimson mist, an army of hollow-eyed warriors marching beneath banners he did not recognize—his own crest twisted, corrupted.
A warning? Or a prophecy?
Later, in the war chamber, Alira stood with arms crossed, studying the shifting map of the continent. "The Southern Lords are rallying," she said. "They fear you've become the very darkness they once worshipped."
"Because I have," Kael replied simply.
Alira flinched. Not from fear—but from uncertainty. Kael was changing. The man who once fought for freedom now seemed entangled in chains forged by shadow.
"They call you Abyss King now," she said. "Even your allies whisper it."
Kael turned to her, eyes glowing faintly violet. "Let them whisper. It's when they're silent that we should worry."
As night fell, Kael descended alone into the catacombs beneath the throne.
Deep beneath Cael'Vareth, a forgotten chamber pulsed with magic. Walls covered in sigils, a pool of black water at the center.
Kael knelt beside it. The surface shimmered, and his reflection blinked back with eyes of flame.
Then it spoke.
Not in words. In feeling. In dread.
A choice must be made.
A door. A blade. A name.
He understood: to truly ascend, he must relinquish the last shard of the man he once was. The Abyss did not reward sentiment. Only sacrifice.
He drew his dagger and whispered the name of the one person he had vowed never to harm.
The surface cracked.
His reflection smiled.