The fires of Virelion smoldered behind them, but Kael did not look back.
He had left the False King's crown behind.
But not the war.
And not the truth burning beneath his skin.
A Map of Bones
In the stillness of the ruined chapel outside the city, Rael traced the old world map etched into the stone altar. It was faded with time—names erased, kingdoms swallowed by ash.
At the center was a symbol: a black spiral surrounded by eight runes.
"The Nameless Throne," Rael whispered. "Older than kings. Older than gods."
Kael stood behind him, arms folded, staring into the fading embers of the brazier. "What is it?"
"Not a throne you sit on. A throne you survive."
Kael's mark burned slightly on his back. He felt it again—the tug of something ancient, like a whisper in his blood.
Ash stepped into the chapel, bruised but breathing. "The Ashen Gate is sealed—for now. But it's not over. The cults are moving underground. Literally."
"They'll try to open it again," Iris added from the doorway, holding a bloodied dagger. "We need to know who gave them the knowledge in the first place."
Rael answered without turning. "Not who... what."
The Nameless Keep
The map led them east—past broken roads and cursed hills—to a place no traveler dared approach.
The Nameless Keep.
It rose like a corpse's crown from the earth—twisted towers of black stone, bleeding mist that killed birds in flight. Rumors said it wasn't built, but grown. Said it was the last thing the Old Gods made before vanishing.
Kael approached it with every part of his body screaming wrong. The shadows leaned too far. The wind whispered names he'd never spoken aloud.
Inside, the walls were carved with prophecies.
Some in blood. Some in a language older than man.
And on a stone altar in the heart of the Keep was a throne—not of gold or bone, but pure void. Like it had been cut out of the world itself.
Kael walked to it, drawn.
Rael screamed behind him. "Don't touch it!"
But it was too late.
His hand brushed the edge—and the throne remembered him.
The Other Kael
Visions struck him like a storm.
He stood in a hundred battlefields.
As a king.
As a tyrant.
As a god.
He saw himself burned alive, resurrected, crowned in flame. Saw himself lead armies of monsters. Saw Iris die in his arms. Saw the world bleed under a sky of ash.
And in every vision, he sat on the throne.
"This is what you become."
A voice—his own, but older, colder.
"You are not chosen. You are inevitable."
Kael screamed and pulled back.
He collapsed onto the floor of the Keep, panting, bleeding from the nose. His eyes glowed briefly—ashen gray.
"Kael?" Iris knelt beside him. "What did you see?"
"Not the future," he whispered.
"Futures."
A New Enemy Rises
Outside the Keep, the sky cracked open—not with fire, but silence.
A figure stood on the horizon—cloaked, faceless, impossibly tall. No footsteps. No wind. Just presence.
Ash gasped. "Is that a god?"
Rael shook his head. "No. Worse. That's the one who feeds on them."
Kael stood, sword in hand, mark pulsing.
He didn't speak.
Because the silence already knew his name.