The council chamber smelled of old stone and incense, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. Torches burned along the walls, but their flames flickered uneasily, as if afraid of what they were about to witness.
Alaric stood in the center, encircled by glowing wards etched into the marble floor. The symbols pulsed with pale light, a cage of protection for those who surrounded him. A semicircle of councilors loomed above on their raised seats, their robes whispering like restless wings. Behind them, students and instructors crowded the edges of the chamber, drawn by curiosity, fear, and something darker: the need to see if the boy who had survived the Blood Moon was savior—or curse.
"Alaric Draven," the Headmaster intoned, his voice echoing off the high arches, "you stand accused of harboring the legacy of the Hollow Ones. You are bound by oath to answer truthfully. Do you deny it?"
Alaric's throat was dry. He opened his mouth, but no words came. The whispers in his skull were too loud, pounding like drums against his thoughts.
"…Vessel… heir… king…"
The amber stone in his palm pulsed, hotter than ever before, as though alive. His breath came ragged, shallow. His vision swam with shifting shadows at the edge.
"Speak, boy!" barked one of the councilors, slamming his hand on the railing.
But before Alaric could force an answer, the wards around him cracked like glass under strain. The faint glow sputtered, then flared. Students gasped. Instructors leapt to their feet, spells ready.
The air itself split open.
From the darkness between the torches, a figure emerged—tall, cloaked in swirling shadow, pale as bone beneath the veil of smoke. His eyes glowed crimson, hollow yet blazing with malevolent fire. He did not walk so much as drift, every step leaving the torches guttering lower.
The wards shattered in a burst of sparks.
"Impossible," the Headmaster whispered, staggering back.
The figure's voice was not one voice at all—it was a chorus of whispers, thousands of tongues woven into one:
"I am Eryndor Draven. King of the Hollow Ones. My blood has returned."
The chamber erupted in chaos. Students screamed. The councilors raised their staffs, summoning light, but their wards dissolved against the tide of black smoke that flooded the floor, climbing the walls like veins of ink.
Alaric staggered backward, his knees weak. The whispers inside him did not resist this presence—they harmonized with it. For the first time, they didn't feel foreign. They felt like memory. Like blood.
Eryndor's burning gaze fixed on him.
"You are mine," he intoned. "My heir. My continuation."
The shadows wrapped closer, curling around Alaric's legs like chains.
And then the amber stone erupted.
Golden fire blazed from his palm, cutting through the dark like a sunbeam piercing a storm. The chamber shook with the force of it.
A roar thundered, not of shadow, but of divinity.
From the flames rose a second figure, vast and radiant. Towering, muscular, wrapped in an aura of fiery devotion. His eyes glowed with unwavering purity, his form shimmering with strength. In one hand he held a mace, heavy with celestial light. The air vibrated with the resonance of mantras unspoken yet felt in every heart.
The spirit's voice thundered like a temple bell shaking the heavens:
"I am Kenive, protector of the divine flame. This vessel is not yours to claim, shadow-king!"
The entire chamber dropped to its knees, some in reverence, others in terror. Even the councilors lowered their gazes, unable to withstand the clash of presences.
The space between Eryndor and Kenive became a battlefield of existence itself—shadow against flame, void against devotion. The air split with their collision, walls groaning, floor cracking beneath the weight of two forces that did not belong in the same world.
Alaric's chest constricted, his body trembling as both powers pulled at him. His mind swirled with unbearable pressure.
Eryndor's whispers coiled like chains around his heart:
"Join me. Rule with me. Together, light and dark will bow. We are not prey—we are kings."
Kenive's voice rang like thunder rolling across mountains:
"Stand with the gods, child. Choose strength, service, and truth. Resist the chains of shadow."
Clem, pale but unyielding, stepped closer, dagger drawn though useless against forces like these. "Alaric…" Her voice cracked, but she forced the words out. "You have to choose."
The torches blew out. The only light came from the golden flame of Kenive and the crimson fire of Eryndor. The council chamber was no longer stone and warded runes—it was a battlefield between heaven and the abyss, with Alaric caught in the center.
The stone floor split, veins of light and shadow racing outward like cracks in glass. Dust rained from the vaulted ceiling. Both spirits roared his name, the sound rattling his bones, his soul.
Alaric's vision blurred. On one side, the purity of fire, the promise of devotion, of standing as protector. On the other, the intoxicating power of darkness, of command, of ruling as more than human.
His body trembled violently. His hands burned. His soul felt as if it were being torn in half.
And yet—he did not move. He stood frozen, sweat pouring down his brow, his breath ragged, his heart pounding like a war drum.
He was no longer merely a boy accused before the council.
He was a battlefield.
The chamber itself seemed to bow to his indecision, groaning and shaking as though the very stones were desperate for his choice.
But Alaric could not choose. Not yet.
And so the scene held: gods and hollows, fire and void, waiting for the vessel to claim one path—or be claimed himself.