The war chamber had never felt colder, even with the fire crackling and the air thick with power. Selene held the tiny ring in her palm, the edges biting into her skin as if punishing her for not knowing.
Her son—her child—was alive.
And Malrik had him.
Kieran stood at her side, silent but brimming with violent restraint. The air around him shimmered, distorted by the tension of a warrior barely holding back the beast within. His golden eyes had darkened, stormlike. He had slain kings. He had battled nightmares in the Wastes. But this… this was different.
Selene stepped back from the table and closed her fingers around the ring. "I need to see the Elders. There are things I must know—things hidden even from the Crown."
Eryndor stiffened. "You mean to unseal the archives beneath Vaelora?"
"They hold truths," Selene said, her voice quiet but unyielding. "About bloodlines. About resurrection. About what Malrik may have done to a child born of shadow and light."
Kieran placed a hand on her shoulder. "We'll go together."
"No," she said firmly. "The archives only open for the blood-marked. I must go alone."
He didn't like it. She could see the battle in his eyes. But he nodded. "Then I'll clear your path."
As the others prepared a secure transport to the ruins of Vaelora, Selene slipped into her private chambers. Her mind reeled with fragments of memory—her pregnancy, the night of the birth, the midwife's pale face when she'd whispered stillborn.
Had she been lied to?
Or had Malrik truly stolen her son from the cradle of death?
She reached under the floorboards and drew out an old relic: her mother's dagger, carved with runes that predated the kingdom. A blade that revealed truth when blood was spilled upon it.
Her grip on the hilt tightened.
Outside, the city of Duskveil trembled. Unseen to the naked eye, sigils flickered in the sky, marking the presence of ancient power. The Hollow Flame had awakened.
—
Elsewhere…
The boy stood in the rain, watching the guards below from his perch on the cathedral's rooftop. His eyes were unlike any human's—one silver, one golden. A perfect mirror of two bloodlines never meant to be merged.
He felt no warmth from the world. Only fire within.
"Do you know why she named you Rael?" the voice behind him rasped.
He didn't turn. "Because she loved the sound of it?"
A chuckle. "Because it meant 'resurrected hope.' Fitting, isn't it? You were her hope. And now, you'll be her ruin."
Rael didn't respond. He had been raised in darkness, taught that love was weakness and pain was power. But in the silent hours of night, a name haunted him—a face half-remembered, half-dreamed. A woman with silver eyes and hands that once trembled while holding him.
"She's coming for me," he whispered.
The man behind him—Malrik—smiled.
"That's what we want, my son."
He placed a hand on Rael's shoulder.
"When she sees what you've become, she will break. And from that ruin… you'll rise."
—
Back in Duskveil…
Kieran watched the convoy vanish beyond the gates, unease in his gut. He trusted Selene's strength. He'd witnessed it. But if her son was alive—and trained by Malrik—then they weren't just facing a monster.
They were facing a legacy forged in vengeance.
And for the first time in years, Kieran felt the whisper of doubt.
Could love survive what obsession had created?
And more terrifying…
Could it destroy it?