Smoke clung to Seraphina's lungs like poison, thick and metallic as she shoved aside a crumbling support beam. Her shoulder screamed in protest, but she ignored the pain.
"Auren!" she called out, heart pounding. "Auren, answer me!"
No response.
Debris littered the chamber—rubble, shattered sigils, the lingering hum of spent magic. Whatever that girl had unleashed, it hadn't been an ordinary spell. It had been something old. Ancient. Designed to destroy.
She found him slumped near the collapsed archway, his robes singed, blood seeping from a gash above his brow.
Her chest tightened.
"Damn you," she muttered and dropped to her knees beside him.
She touched his cheek—still warm.
"Hey," she said softly. "Scholar. Wake up."
His eyes fluttered open slowly, dazed. "Seraphina?"
"You're lucky I was here."
He blinked. "You're lucky I don't believe in luck."
She let out a shaky breath. "You're bleeding."
He sat up with a groan. "I've had worse."
"Don't be a martyr. It's unattractive."
"I'll try to be prettier next time I'm nearly blown up."
She glanced around, tone shifting. "Where's the girl?"
He stilled. "Gone."
Just… vanished. No traces, no footprints, no magic residue. But something lingered in the air—a ghost of starlight, a weight of memory pressing down.
"What did she mean?" Seraphina asked. "You weren't supposed to remember. Burn again?"
He exhaled and pushed himself upright with effort. "I think she's a Seer. Or something close."
"That doesn't answer me."
He looked at her then, and there was no scholar in his gaze.
Only the strategist. The fallen king.
"She's part of the prophecy," he said.
Her brows shot up. "There's a prophecy?"
"There's always a prophecy."
"Auren."
He turned to her fully, eyes dark and sharp. "Before I died… in my past life… I was warned. A voice told me I would be reborn with knowledge, but if I ever remembered everything before the empire was ready—I'd destroy it all again."
"And you remembered early."
He nodded.
"So, what happens now?"
"I burn," he said quietly.
"And I watch the world burn with me."
They limped back to the upper levels of the warehouse, tension hanging thick between them. Neither spoke as Auren poured water into a shallow bowl and began washing the blood from his temple.
Seraphina leaned against a beam, arms crossed, watching him.
"Why didn't you tell me the truth sooner?" she asked.
He dabbed at the wound. "Because I didn't trust you."
"And now?"
He met her gaze. "Now I don't have the luxury of secrets."
A beat.
Then—"What was your real name?" she asked.
Auren hesitated.
"Arion Vael," he said finally.
The name struck her like lightning. Arion Vael. The Storm King. The Mad Strategist. The ruler who had vanished twenty years ago in a rebellion bathed in blood and betrayal.
"You were a tyrant," she whispered.
"No," he said. "I was a king who trusted the wrong people."
She studied him, this man with the quiet voice and haunted eyes, and tried to reconcile the legend with the living. Tried to tell herself he was still a liar, a manipulator. But that moment in the chamber—the way he shielded her, the anguish in his eyes when the girl spoke…
He was more than a ghost of a fallen king.
He was broken. And still burning.
"You scare me," she said quietly.
He glanced over. "Because of who I was?"
"No." She stepped closer. "Because of what I'm starting to feel when I look at you."
He froze.
The silence was sharp, dangerous.
"Don't," he said, voice low. "Don't feel anything for me."
"Why?"
"Because I'll use it," he whispered. "Because I can't afford not to."
Her heart twisted painfully.
"You're not a monster, Auren."
He looked at her then, eyes filled with something raw and dark. "No. But I remember how to become one."
Night fell hard over Liora.
Seraphina stayed.
She told herself it was for strategy. That she needed to understand what he was building, who his enemies were. That this was about survival.
But in truth, she couldn't walk away.
Not now. Not when she'd seen behind the mask.
Auren led her to a hidden wing in the warehouse—an underground strategy room carved from enchanted stone. Maps covered the walls, each marked with sigils and black flames. In the center stood a large obsidian table etched with names.
Auren pointed. "These are the Twelve Lords. Secret rulers who fund the Guild from behind the curtain. They've been moving pieces across the continent for decades."
"And the girl?"
"Likely a pawn. Or worse—an oracle."
Seraphina stared at the names. "You plan to dismantle all of this?"
"I plan to burn it to ash," he said. "And build something better."
She moved closer. "And what would this new world look like?"
"Equal. Free. Ruthless."
"That's not peace."
"It's the only path to it."
She reached up, brushing the edge of his collar.
His breath hitched.
"You think you're alone in this," she said. "But you're not."
"You don't know what I've done—what I'm willing to do."
"I don't care," she said.
His hand found hers.
And for a heartbeat, the air between them pulsed.
Then—
A glowing sigil on the wall flared crimson.
An alert.
Auren released her and moved fast. He pressed his hand to the wall. A hidden drawer slid open, revealing a viewing orb.
Seraphina stepped beside him.
Within the orb, a figure appeared.
A man, seated on a velvet throne, swirling wine in a crystal glass. Dark eyes. Cruel smile. An empire's arrogance.
"Who is that?" Seraphina asked.
Auren's voice turned ice.
"Varek."
"The man who betrayed you?"
He nodded slowly. "And he's alive."
The figure in the orb spoke, his voice smooth as poison.
"To the little storm pretending to sleep—I know you're awake, Arion. I know you're building again. And I'm coming to finish what I started."
The orb flared—and went black.
Seraphina turned to Auren.
His hands were trembling.
"I killed him," he said. "I buried him myself."
"Apparently not deep enough."
Auren looked at her, something crumbling in his expression.
"I don't know if I can win this time."
She stepped forward and cupped his jaw, forcing him to meet her gaze.
"Then don't win alone."