The halls of the Aetherial Keep whispered with age as Kaelen walked through them, his steps slow and deliberate, the soft echo of his boots swallowed by centuries of stone and silence. Dust floated in the morning light that streamed through high, stained-glass windows, casting long prisms of color that danced across the ancient tiles below. Here, in the oldest part of the keep, the air carried a weight to it—not just of history, but of memory.
It had been only two days since his return from Aldemir. The visions from the fissure still haunted his thoughts, vivid as waking dreams. The mark, the corrupted energy, the whispers of a forgotten past—all of it pointed to a deeper origin. And now, standing before the sealed doors of the royal archives, Kaelen sought answers not from his enemies, but from the long-dead scholars and kings who might have faced a shadow like this before.
He raised a hand, fingers outstretched, and the runes embedded in the archway glowed faintly in response to his presence. The door creaked open, ancient hinges reluctantly yielding after years untouched. Inside, darkness clung to the ceiling like smoke. With a thought, Kaelen summoned a sphere of soft, golden light that floated beside him, casting its warm glow over the rows upon rows of parchment scrolls, stone tablets, and forgotten tomes.
The royal archives were rarely visited now. Much of the kingdom's modern knowledge had been relocated to more accessible libraries. But here—here were the untouched records, the dangerous ideas, the mysteries left too heavy to carry forward.
He moved along the rows slowly, fingers tracing worn titles, his energy gently brushing against layers of preservation spells still humming softly. Marevith had once mentioned a name—a name that had been erased from royal records, stricken from lineage and memory alike. An Infinite Shifter that existed before Kaelen's line had fully ascended to power. A figure whose rise, and fall, had been shrouded in purposeful obscurity.
It took hours. Scroll after scroll, old letters, battle reports from forgotten borders, treaties with names he barely recognized. None spoke directly of the cult, nor of the shifter markings like those at Aldemir.
But then – a book, unmarked. Bound in cracked leather, the spine reinforced with silver threads dulled with age. It called to him in a way he couldn't explain, like a whisper against his soul.
He opened it gently.
The first pages were filled with diagrams. Anatomical sketches of shifters—not just in mid-transformation, but etched with notes of enhancement, transference, fusion. Some bore symbols he'd never seen. Others mirrored the shifting spiral mark that had been left on the dead messenger.
Then came a name.
Varethion.
No title. No date. Just the name, inscribed in looping, deliberate script, as if the writer needed to remember it before it faded again.
Kaelen leaned in, reading more. Varethion had once ruled, not as a king, but as a "Custodian of Flame and Form," a title ancient beyond measure. He was said to be the first to wield the Infinite Shift—or something near it. His control of the energy was so refined he could not only transform himself, but others, cities, the land itself. And yet, the records described him not as a hero, but as a warning.
Varethion had tried to change the fate of the world by remaking it in his image. Those he failed to convert became enemies. Those who followed him were twisted by his power, until nothing of their original forms remained.
Kaelen closed the book slowly, the weight of the past sinking into his chest.
"It wasn't just power," he whispered. "It was the will to dominate it all. To shape not for balance, but for control."
A soft sound stirred behind him–bare feet on stone. He turned.
Marevith stood at the threshold, cloaked in dark blue robes, her silver hair tied back in a practical braid. She stepped inside without a word, her sharp eyes locking on the book in his hands.
"You found it," she said simply.
Kaelen nodded. "Why did you never speak of him before?"
"Because he was buried by design," Marevith replied, crossing the room to stand at his side. "Your ancestors feared what he represented. Not just a failed shifter, but a fracture in the philosophy that built Vaeloria. He was the first to lose himself to the allure of infinite power. And the cult... they might be remnants of his ideology. Or those who seek to restore it."
Kaelen glanced down at the spiraling symbol on one of the diagrams again. "The mark on the dead man... was one of Varethion's symbols."
"Then they've found pieces of his legacy," she murmured. "Perhaps more."
The silence between them thickened, until Kaelen spoke again, his voice low. "What if this is what the orb wanted to show me? Not just what I could be... but what I must never become?"
Marevith placed a hand gently over his. "That is why you are different. You seek to understand, not to conquer. That will be your anchor, Kaelen."
He closed the book and cradled it in his arms as he turned back toward the archive's entrance.
"Then I must learn everything about him. And about the others like him. If the cult is trying to resurrect more than a power... then we need more than strength to stop them. We need the truth."
And so he walked forward, light trailing him like a loyal shadow, bearing the weight of forgotten knowledge—a past long buried, and now stirring once more.