The halls of Rivenhart were colder that night—not in temperature, but in memory.
Auren lay awake on the edge of his cot, the fire in his chamber long since faded to a dull glow. The silence felt different now. Not the kind born of loneliness, but of awakening. His heart still raced, echoing the vision he'd seen in the crypt—blades of light, a shattered throne, the words scorched into the wall:
"Shards choose. But Broken Ones… take."
He repeated them silently, again and again, like a mantra.
What had that door been? Why was it hidden in the crypt, beneath frost and time and rot? And more than that—why had it called to him?
He stared at his hands. Nothing glowed. Nothing shimmered.
But something tugged at the edges of his thoughts now, like a breeze through cracked glass.
"A thread. Tangled.""Some Shards don't hum. They whisper."
Lys's words lingered in the corners of his mind. She had spoken not like a sister, but like someone who knew—who understood what it meant to be devoured by the thing inside you. Or worse, to feel nothing when you should.
He remembered the Summoner's gaze, cold and calculating. Not a look of pity. A measure. A weighing.
Was he just a piece on some board he couldn't yet see?
He turned his head toward the narrow window carved into the stone wall. Snow had begun to fall again, the flakes dancing under pale moonlight.
Down below, the courtyard torches flickered. His brothers were likely in the inner war room now, planning formations for the Marches. Lys would be meditating, or gone. She came and went like wind lately.
And him?
He was always the afterthought. The extra seat at the table. The one no one knew what to do with.
But now… something had shifted.
The crypt. The vision. The door.
They didn't see it. But he did.
And whatever it was—it hadn't rejected him.
He rose before dawn.
No servants stirred yet. The halls were empty. The scent of frost and dust clung to the stones.
He returned to the crypt, heart in his throat. The door was still there. Still cracked open. Still pulsing faintly with that cold awareness.
He didn't enter.
Not yet.
But he placed a hand on the frame and closed his eyes.
There it was—that thread again.
This time, it didn't resist.
Back in his chamber, he pulled out a long-forgotten journal—something his mother had once gifted him, back when they still believed he'd awaken like the rest.
He hadn't written in years.
But now he filled the page:
I saw something. A throne. A ruin. A choice.I think the world broke a long time ago.And maybe… it left pieces for someone like me.
Not chosen.But waiting.
That morning, at breakfast, no one looked at him differently.
Caelen barely acknowledged him. Darien offered a single nod. Lys, absent as usual. Lord Mareth was deep in discussion with an envoy from Ironmark.
Just as always.
But as he sat quietly, his fingers brushed against the silver band of his water cup—and for the briefest moment, it hummed.
Barely perceptible.
But it was there.
His eyes didn't widen. His posture didn't change.
But deep inside, Auren smiled.
[End of Chapter 5]