The palace cellars were older than Morgrave itself, carved deep into the bedrock long before the city's first stones were laid. Kael moved through the tunnels with a torch in hand, the flame flickering against walls etched with ancient runes. The air was thick with dust and the faint, metallic tang of old magic.
He had come here at the king's request. The priests had reported strange tremors and a growing unease in the wards that protected the city. Kael's demon senses prickled with every step, as if something beneath the stone was watching him.
He paused at a heavy iron door, its surface marked with sigils that pulsed faintly in the torchlight. This was the heart of the wards—a place forbidden to all but the king and his most trusted. Kael pressed his palm to the door, feeling the magic shudder beneath his skin.
The door opened with a groan. Inside, the chamber was circular, its floor inlaid with a mosaic of the seven kingdoms encircling a black sun. At the center stood a pedestal, upon which rested a crystal orb—once clear, now swirling with shadows.
Kael approached, heart pounding. The orb pulsed as he neared, and for a moment, he saw a vision: a sky torn asunder, fire raining down, and a monstrous figure wreathed in flame—Azhakar, the Bound Flame, rising from the ashes.
He staggered back, breath ragged. The vision faded, but the fear remained.
A voice echoed from the shadows. "You saw it, didn't you?"
Kael spun, hand on his sword. The High Priest, Elandor Mierin, stepped into the light, his white robes stained with soot.
"The wards are failing," Elandor said, his eyes cold and hard. "The demon realm stirs. We must act, before it's too late."
Kael's jaw tightened. "What would you have me do?"
Elandor's gaze lingered on Kael's eyes—one blue, one gold. "You are not like us. The king may trust you, but I do not. If the wards fall, your kind will be the first to betray us."
Kael bristled, but held his tongue. He had heard these words before, from soldiers, from nobles, from frightened children in the streets. But never so openly from the priesthood.
"I serve Morgrave," Kael said quietly. "I swore an oath."
Elandor's lips curled in a thin smile. "Oaths are easily broken. Blood is not."
He turned and left, his footsteps echoing in the gloom.
Kael stared at the orb, its shadows swirling faster now. He felt the heat rising from the stone beneath his feet, as if a fire smoldered deep below.
Somewhere, far beneath the palace, something ancient was awakening.
He pressed his hand to the mosaic, feeling the thrum of power. The wards were burning out, their magic unraveling. And in the darkness, Kael heard a whisper—a voice not his own, calling him by a name he did not remember.
He fled the chamber, the torchlight flickering wildly behind him.
Above, the city of Morgrave carried on, unaware that the world was about to change forever.