Cael stood alone beneath a half-shattered arch, staring at a stone slab. Blood-red writing had appeared in the night:
"When the seventh Godbrand awakens, Arkhadia will kneel or burn."
Selara approached cautiously.
"You didn't write that, did you?"
Cael didn't look at her.
"No. But I think I will."
Later that day, as Cael and Selara crossed the Sorrowfields, a shadow broke from a tree — kneeling instantly.
A cloaked woman, masked, her arms bound in golden prayer wraps.
"I come bearing no blade. Only a choice."
Cael's eyes narrowed. "You're one of the Chains."
"Once," she said. "But no longer."
She removed her mask — revealing hollow eyes glowing red.
"My name is Veida. I was the Chain of Judgment. And I was meant to kill you next."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because I saw what you'll become. And for the first time... I was afraid."
Veida offered a crystal — pulsing with warm, golden light. Inside it, a single strand of time twisted.
"This is the Oath Shard," she explained. "A sealed memory stolen from the Hourlocked Vault. From before your birth. A memory… you were never meant to have."
Cael took it in his hand. It burned.
Suddenly—
He was not standing in the field anymore.
He was in the middle of a throne room. Dark. Quiet. A voice called to him:
"You were not meant to carry your father's crown."
On the throne sat a version of himself, older, regal, dying.
His future self spoke:
"If you are seeing this, it means I failed. I became the Hollow King. And now it's your turn to choose—continue my path... or end it."
The shard shattered.
Cael gasped. Veida stepped back, watching him carefully.
"Now you know," she said. "The gods fear you because you've already broken them once before."
That night, at a ruined inn, Selara found someone in the rubble.
A small girl. Dirt-stained. Eyes glowing faint gold.
Carved into her wrist was a sigil—Cael's own, ancient and royal.
"She's from the future," Selara whispered. "And she's your blood."
The girl looked up at Cael. Not afraid.
"You're... not the same one who left me behind."
"What's your name?" he asked softly.
"I don't remember," she said. "Only that I followed the flame to find you."
Cael's hands trembled.
"She's the warning," Selara said. "Or the weapon."
Far to the east, beyond the Scorched Ridge, something stirred.
A city made of molten stone and ash—Vel Ardentis, the Sleeping Flame. Once a kingdom, now a prison for forgotten war spirits.
As Cael stared into the campfire that night, he saw it in his vision.
The towers were burning, not from fire, but from memory.
A voice called from within:
"Come home, King of Embers."
The fire at his feet roared, even without wood.
Cael didn't flinch.
"My brands are waking up on their own," he said quietly.
"The world is remembering me faster than I can forget."
Selara looked at him — truly afraid for the first time.
"What will you do?"
He looked at the girl. Then at the stars.
"I'll make them all remember why they chained me in the first place."
In the night, a new light burned beside Cael's sleeping camp.
A scroll, wrapped in chains of blue flame, hovered mid-air.
It was Nehra's handwriting.
"They think you are breaking fate. They're wrong."
"You are fate. And fate is waking up angry."
At the bottom, a symbol appeared. Not his sigil — but a counter-sigil.
The sign of the one being strong enough to unmake a Godbranded king.
And it was signed only:
"The Architect."