The cold came slowly at first — a warning carried on the wind.
Kaelen felt it creeping in during the final stretch through the highlands, as he and Aelric left behind the sun-scorched remnants of Erelthane. The golden glow of the Ember no longer gave warmth in this part of the world. Here, the skies dimmed too early. The clouds pressed lower. And the stars, when they appeared, seemed older, wearier — like they were watching a path long walked and forgotten.
By the fifth day of travel, snow had begun to fall.
They made camp in a hollow beneath frost-hardened pine, the fire sputtering against the damp. Kaelen sat with the First Crown wrapped in cloth, cradled beside him like a sleeping relic. Aelric, across the flames, tossed a knife end over end into a knot of frozen wood, eyes distant.
"This place," Aelric muttered, "doesn't want us here."
"It's not meant to," Kaelen said quietly. "Halvyr's been closed for centuries. They say even the dead are locked behind its walls."
Aelric gave a bitter grin. "And yet we walk in anyway. Because why not annoy an entire kingdom of ancient ghosts."
The path to Halvyr Keep led through the Twilight Vale — a deep glacial rift where sunlight faded and time bent. Snow fell continuously. The sky remained in an endless dusk, neither day nor night. Wind whispered through the trees like mourners repeating the same name.
Kaelen felt the Ember growing colder the closer they came. Not dead — just… reserved. As if even it was cautious.
When the gates of Halvyr Keep finally appeared, they looked less like a castle and more like the remains of a mountain gouged open by grief.
Massive stone towers jutted from icy cliffs. Iron chains spanned broken battlements. No banners flew. No torches burned. The gate itself was sealed — a wall of silver-veined obsidian etched with runes that pulsed softly with blue light.
"It's asleep," Aelric said.
Kaelen approached. The Ember at his chest gave a single, low hum.
The runes answered.
Light spiraled outward from the gate, slow and deliberate. Ice cracked, stone groaned — and the obsidian door opened, revealing a long corridor that sloped down into blue-tinged darkness.
Aelric whistled. "Friendly welcome."
Kaelen stepped inside.
The cold was immediate and unnatural — not of winter, but of memory. Of mourning. Inside, the halls of Halvyr were choked with ice. Statues stood in alcoves: knights cloaked in hoarfrost, queens with eyes like mirrors, children frozen mid-laugh. They lined the corridor like sentinels, watching with stillness that felt just shy of breathing.
The deeper they went, the more oppressive the silence became.
And then the whispers began.
Kaelen paused. "Did you hear—"
Aelric drew his blade. "Yes."
They turned a corner — and the hall opened into a vast circular chamber lined with windows of stained ice. At its center: a frozen throne atop a dais of silver and bone.
Seated upon it: a figure in regal armor, perfectly preserved in frost. A crown of broken twilight shards rested on his brow — the Second Crown.
But before they could approach, the shadows moved.
The walls trembled, and from the frozen arches came shapes — Hollowborn, clad in shards of frost-forged armor, eyes like splinters of moonlight. These were not the chaotic, twisted husks Kaelen had fought before. These were knights — disciplined, deadly.
They formed a ring around the chamber.
A voice rang out — not loud, but so clear it struck bone.
"Who comes seeking the Crown of the Silent King?"
Kaelen stepped forward, sword drawn. "I do. Kaelen of Thornmere. Bearer of the Ember. Heir of flame."
The crown-wearing corpse upon the throne moved.
Its head lifted. Frost cracked from its shoulders. Empty sockets turned toward Kaelen.
"You seek the Crown," it said in a voice layered with ages. "But do you know what it cost us to seal it here? Do you know the price of twilight?"
"I know enough," Kaelen said. "And I don't fear the cost."
The Silent King stood.
The air grew colder. The stained ice glowed with pale light as the spectral images of ancient warriors emerged behind the real Hollowborn — ghosts of Halvyr's last stand.
"You must earn it," the King said. "You must face the Memory of Dusk."
The world fell away.
Kaelen stood suddenly in a battlefield — dusk eternal above, snow bloodied beneath. He was alone… except for the hundreds of armored figures closing in on him, their swords wreathed in silver fire. They moved as one — silent, perfect, unrelenting.
Kaelen fought.
Every clash rang like bells through a graveyard. He moved faster than he had in Erelthane, the Ember flaring with each parry, each strike. Still, the memory pressed in. Every wound he took was not just pain — it was sorrow. Regret. Doubt.
He faltered.
The King's voice echoed: "Will you bury yourself in despair as we did?"
"No," Kaelen gasped, rising again. "I'll carry it."
He drove forward, Ember blazing — and in that instant, the battlefield cracked, and the memory shattered like ice under a hammer.
Kaelen collapsed to one knee in the chamber, breath steaming in the cold.
The Silent King approached. He removed the crown — its thorns glittering with frozen light — and held it out.
"You endure," he said. "Then take this crown, and carry our silence with you."
Kaelen took the crown with both hands. It was cold, but not cruel. He bowed his head.
When he stood, the Hollowborn were gone.
The hall fell quiet.
Aelric walked up beside him, eyes narrowed. "I'd ask what just happened, but… you wouldn't believe me."
Kaelen turned to the throne. "I don't think I believe it myself."
As they left the chamber, the gates behind them closed — not with finality, but with rest.
Halvyr Keep had given up its last king.
And ahead, in the drowned coasts of the east, the tide waited.
Iskaran was next.