The gates of the Capital loomed ahead—tall, blackened by age and smoke, and etched with gold that shimmered faintly beneath the dying light of the sun. Sylas and Alira approached in silence, cloaked and hooded, the dust of the road clinging to them like a second skin. The journey had taken them six days—six days of evasion, half-truths, and the creeping sense that eyes were always watching.
The city was a maze of stone and shadow. Smoke curled from a hundred chimneys, and the narrow alleys pulsed with life and danger in equal measure. Merchants called out hollowly, their voices competing with the clang of the forge and the distant chants of the Temple Ward. The streets bore an undercurrent of fear—subtle, but present. As though the people felt the world was shifting, even if they couldn't name how or why.
Alira muttered, "This city used to feel alive. Now it feels like it's waiting to fall."
Sylas agreed silently. He could feel it too—the oppressive pull in the air. Magic thickened here, like a storm held just beneath the surface. Somewhere deep beneath the city's foundations, something ancient stirred.
The Archanists' Tower rose like a needle toward the sky, its base buried within the Scholar's District. Guarded, warded, forbidden to most. But Sylas had connections.
They entered a small apothecary three blocks from the Tower. Inside, the air reeked of powdered herbs and old secrets. The shopkeeper, a gaunt woman with emerald tattoos along her neck, gave them a long look.
"Didn't expect to see you, Ghostborn," she rasped.
Sylas didn't flinch. "I need access to the Inner Stacks."
She laughed without humor. "You're either desperate or suicidal. The Inner Stacks haven't been opened since the Null Rebellion."
Alira narrowed her eyes. "Then open them. Or we find someone who will."
The woman considered, then sighed. "I'll need three hours. Come back at moonrise."
They left quickly, avoiding attention. Sylas led them through the winding alleys to a rooftop that overlooked the Tower. From there, they could see the city's heart—the Palace, the Temple, the looming garrison walls. And the people. So many people, unaware of the storm building beneath their feet.
Alira turned to him. "What exactly are you hoping to find?"
Sylas looked down at his hands. The markings had faded but not disappeared. The echo inside him—what the Voidspawn had awakened—grew stronger each day.
"I don't know," he said. "But the Archives hold fragments from the First Collapse. If there's anything about the name Kael'Tharion, it'll be there."
Alira hesitated. "And what if what you find… is worse than you imagined?"
Sylas met her gaze. "Then I'll need you to remind me who I am."
She didn't smile. But she didn't look away either.
Moonrise came, and they returned. The apothecary handed Sylas a small silver medallion engraved with runes. "This will get you past the first two wards. After that, you're on your own."
They slipped into the Tower through a forgotten servant's tunnel, descending into its bowels. The air grew colder, the torches dimmer. The runes etched along the stone flickered, reacting to Sylas's presence.
At last, they reached the sealed door of the Inner Stacks.
Sylas pressed the medallion against the lock. Light flared. Metal groaned. The door swung open.
Inside was silence.
Row after row of ancient tomes, scrolls, and arcane relics filled the chamber. Some books pulsed softly with their own magic, chained in place or wrapped in glass. Others bore warnings scorched into their bindings.
They searched for hours.
Finally, Alira gasped. She held up a black leather tome. No title. No markings.
But when Sylas opened it, a name surged to the front in glowing ink.
Kael'Tharion.
The pages told of an ancient being, older than nations, sealed beneath the world by seven Seals forged from the essence of forgotten gods. Each Heart was a key—each one now being drawn toward its counterpart by the reawakening force within Sylas.
But that wasn't all.
A prophecy followed:
When the seventh key awakens, the Gate shall open.
When the Ghostborn walks the Spiral Path,
The world shall bleed, or ascend.
One will rise with shadowed flame,
And all will kneel, or burn.
Sylas staggered back, the book falling from his hands.
Alira picked it up. "Ghostborn… that's you."
He didn't answer. His heart thundered. The force within him pulsed in time with the ancient verse.
The final Heart hadn't awakened yet.
But it would.
And when it did, Sylas knew there would be no turning back.