The snow had returned by the time they reached Thornwatch Outpost. Thick, heavy flakes drifted down in silence, settling over the jagged cliffs and fortified walls like a burial shroud.
The guards at the gate straightened as Aelric's party approached. Eyes flicked to the battered weapons, torn cloaks — and to Aelric himself, pale, drained, but very much alive.
The news had likely preceded them.
Within the stone walls, the Thornmaster was waiting.
The war room was quieter this time. Fewer officers, no inquisitors — yet the atmosphere was heavier, weighted with expectation and quiet suspicion.
Thornmaster Dren stood by the table, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His gaze flicked across the group, lingering on the exhausted soldiers and bloodstained weapons before settling on Aelric.
"Report."
Aelric tossed a cracked, rune-inscribed shard of Riftborn chitin onto the table. It pulsed faintly — a fragment of the things they'd fought.
"The ruins were a trap," Aelric began, voice low but steady. "A cult — not Covenant — performing a ritual to breach the dimensional barrier. They succeeded."
The room stirred.
"We neutralized the threat," Aelric continued, ignoring the whispers. "Sealed the rift. Eliminated the Riftborn." He paused. "For now."
Dren studied him. "You sealed a multiversal rift."
A statement, not a question.
Aelric met his gaze. "I did."
"And you survived," Dren added, eyes narrowing. "With the artifact."
The Shard at Aelric's belt remained dim, but its presence was undeniable. Even the soldiers in the room gave it wide berth.
Aelric straightened, weary but defiant. "I used what I had. You wanted results — I delivered."
Dren's fingers tapped the table. "You also drew attention."
From the shadows behind the Thornmaster, a new figure stepped forward. Robes of deep blue. Silver-trimmed cloak. The insignia of the Royal Magisterium gleaming on their chest.
Aelric's stomach tightened.
"Lord Veyne," the Magister greeted smoothly. "The Crown has taken notice."
Behind him, more soldiers appeared — not Thornwatch, but Royal Guard. Well-equipped. Well-trained. And they weren't here to congratulate him.
"Sealing rifts," the Magister continued, smiling politely, "tampering with Hollowborn sigils, wielding an unidentified artifact of… questionable origin." His smile widened, teeth sharp. "You've been busy."
Rhea's hand drifted toward her blades. Bren tensed beside her.
Aelric exhaled slowly. "Get to the point."
The Magister inclined his head. "The Crown requires your… cooperation."
Aelric's eyes darkened. "And if I refuse?"
The soldiers shifted, hands resting on hilts.
Dren raised a hand. The room stilled. His gaze was hard, calculating.
"This isn't a request," the Thornmaster said quietly.
Aelric's fingers brushed the Shard. Beneath his skin, the faint, unstable hum of its power whispered to him — dangerous, defiant, and utterly unbound.
He could fight. He could run. But doing so now, half-drained and surrounded, was suicide.
For now, he played their game.
But only for now.
Aelric forced a thin smile. "Lead the way."
The Magister gestured toward the waiting guards.
As they escorted him deeper into the fortress — toward the waiting carriages, toward the capital — Aelric's mind raced.
The Riftborn were only the beginning.
And the Crown? The Covenant? The gods themselves?
They had no idea what they were dealing with.
But soon… they would.
...
The capital city of Caer Thalyss loomed ahead like a gilded fortress, its towering spires and marble facades gleaming beneath a pale winter sun.
It was beautiful. Immaculate. And utterly suffocating.
The carriages rumbled across cobbled streets as Aelric sat, hands unbound but under no illusion of freedom. Two Royal Magisters flanked him inside the ornate cabin, their silence heavier than shackles.
Through the window, he caught glimpses of the city's layered wealth — merchant districts overflowing with exotic goods, noble estates rising behind wrought-iron gates, and beyond them all, perched atop the highest hill, the citadel of the Crown.
The Palace of Aetherglass. Seat of the High King. And prison, in all but name, for anyone deemed… inconvenient.
The carriage stopped.
As the door opened, a blast of cold wind carried the faint scent of incense, stone, and something else — the sterile tang of magic woven into every brick of the grand plaza.
Guards in silver and navy armor lined the steps of the palace. Cloaked Magisters lingered at the edges, eyes watchful, their insignias pulsing faintly with enchantments.
Rhea and Bren stood nearby, having been escorted separately. Both looked tense, ready.
Aelric stepped down, the Shard at his side hidden beneath his cloak but its pulse steady, faint.
The Magister from Thornwatch reappeared, all courtly smiles and sharp eyes. "Welcome to Caer Thalyss, Lord Veyne. His Majesty awaits."
The way the Magister spoke — polite, pleasant, but laced with quiet threat — set Aelric's nerves on edge.
Inside the palace, grandeur reigned. Vaulted ceilings of crystal and enchanted glass reflected the winter sunlight in dazzling patterns. Noble courtiers drifted through the halls like birds of prey, their whispered conversations pausing as the newcomers passed.
At the heart of the great hall, atop a raised dais, the High King sat upon the Throne of Veils.
King Caedric Vale. Sovereign of the human realms. The man who, according to rumor, bowed to no god — yet answered to forces most mortals never saw.
Caedric was younger than Aelric expected. Barely into his forties, his hair dark, eyes sharp, crown subtle — a circlet of silver and woven runes. His presence filled the hall, not through volume or bluster, but sheer, coiled authority.
Aelric knelt, as protocol demanded. Rhea and Bren hesitated before following suit.
"You've stirred the world, Lord Veyne," Caedric began, his voice smooth, distant. "Sealing rifts. Harnessing ancient power. Drawing attention… dangerous attention."
Aelric rose, carefully neutral. "I neutralized a threat to your kingdom."
"And in doing so," Caedric replied, "became one."
The hall fell silent. Even the courtiers, hungry for scandal, dared not speak.
Caedric leaned forward slightly. "The gods, the Covenant, the multiverse itself — they watch. Do you know what happens when one ambitious soul upsets the balance, Lord Veyne?"
Aelric's jaw clenched. "I've seen what happens when no one opposes them."
For the first time, the High King smiled — faint, assessing.
"Bold," Caedric murmured. "And bold men burn quickly."
He gestured to the Magisters. "You will remain under Crown supervision. Your artifact… studied. Your movements… observed. Cooperation ensures comfort. Defiance…"
The unspoken threat lingered.
But beneath it all, Aelric could see it — fear. Not just of him, but of what he represented. A fracture in their controlled, orderly world. A hint of rebellion in the grand design of fate.
Chains of gold were still chains.
But chains could be broken.
Aelric bowed his head. "As you command, Your Majesty."
But in his heart, the resolve burned brighter.
The gods may watch. The Crown may cage. But Aelric Veyne was no pawn.
And soon… they'd all understand why.