The door closed behind Caelan with the solemn hush of a tomb sealing shut.
No lock clicked.
No breath of wind stirred.
And yet he knew—he would not leave until it was done.
The chamber was round, perfectly symmetrical, cut from midnight-black stone veined with veins of silver that pulsed faintly beneath his feet. Twelve mirrors stood equidistant along the wall—tall as towers, their frames wrought from pale gold that had dulled over centuries. There were no candles, no torches. And yet the space glowed with the strange, sourceless light of the Veil.
And in all those mirrors…
No reflection.
Not of himself.
Not of the room.
Nothing.
Caelan stepped toward the center of the chamber, boots silent against the floor. The air was cool, metallic, thick with something older than breath—memory without voice.
The spiral etched into the floor beneath him pulsed once.
Then again.
Then came the first mirror.
It shimmered—not with light, but with remembering.
A vision swelled inside its frame like fog behind glass.
Caelan watched himself standing atop a battlefield drowned in moonlight. His cloak billowed in torn ribbons behind him. His chest bore a silver crest—spiraled and radiant—and a broken crown hung loosely in one gloved hand. The land behind him burned. Before him, wolves knelt. Vampires wept. And he—
—he did not blink.
He stood like a sovereign of ruin.
Then the mirror darkened.
A second mirror came to life.
This one showed a memory he recognized—a moonlit garden behind the orphanage. He was seven. Alone. The air was still, his hands dirty with half-buried marigolds, and the pendant around his neck pulsed softly. He remembered the dead owl beneath the tree. The way its one open eye reflected no stars.
He had buried it with shaking hands.
"You always knew," a voice whispered from the glass.
He turned, startled—but he was still alone.
The third mirror flared.
This one was not his memory.
A citadel of white stone, broken under a crimson sun. A woman stood on the steps—tall, armored in radiant ivory edged with gold. She turned toward the mirror. Her eyes were golden spirals, her lips parted in grief.
"Find the Watcher," she whispered. "Or all thrones will fall again."
Caelan reached toward her.
The glass turned black.
A fourth mirror. A fifth. A sixth.
Visions of lives unlived poured into him like cold water through cracks in the soul. He saw:
– A war fought beneath three moons.
– A child with his face, burned alive on a pyre of old crowns.
– A throne that bled shadow every time someone sat upon it.
– Seraphyne holding a sword made of screams.
– Velrath weeping.
– The Kingdom itself torn down by a storm of wings.
By the time the eleventh mirror ignited, Caelan was on his knees. His heart raced as though fighting its own chains. The ring on his hand felt molten. His breath came shallow, ragged.
The twelfth mirror stirred.
Its frame was cracked.
The vision did not rise slowly.
It struck.
The chamber darkened. From within the mirror, a figure emerged—tall, regal, crowned. Its face was his, older, gaunt, marred by time and sorrow. One of its eyes glowed gold.
The other? Hollow.
Empty.
A spiraling black void.
And around his throat, the figure wore two pendants—his, and another… darker… twisted.
"You are not the first Duskwither to return," the figure said.
The mirror shattered.
The sound echoed like thunder deep within the earth.
Caelan cried out, stumbling back—
And that's when the spiral beneath his feet ignited in silver fire.
He was still in the room.
But he was no longer alone.
From the base of the door, the shadow slithered inward. It coiled like living ink, spilling through the cracks, ignoring walls, forming into shapes—beasts, faces, wounds. It rose until it loomed over him, eyes blooming across its surface, all unblinking and fixed on him.
It spoke.
Not aloud. Not with words.
But with remembering.
"You are not the first Duskwither to stand here…"
The shadow pulsed.
"You are only the first to survive the memory."
---
Caelan screamed.
He didn't mean to.
But something inside him broke—a dam of silence torn open by echoes that did not belong to this lifetime.
The pendant blazed white-hot.
The ring split at the seam and shed a single droplet of black ichor onto the stone.
And the mirrors began to bleed.
From the cracks came whispers. Not of voices, but of names—thousands, ancient and half-formed, spoken in forgotten tongues.
Then, just as he thought he would be undone—
A voice cut through the horror like a sword through fog.
Feminine. Calm. Commanding.
"Enough."
The mirrors shattered all at once—inward, glass turning to ash before it could strike him.
The room fell silent again.
Caelan lay on the floor, chest heaving.
His eyes stared upward.
There was no ceiling now.
Only stars.
Spiraling.
Turning.
Waiting.
The door opened.
Whisperbound stood on the threshold, her face pale beneath her hood. She said nothing, only looked at him. She held no scroll this time.
But she was not alone.
Behind her, stepping through the veil of black thorns now parting from the corridor beyond, came Kael Noctaryn.
The Vampire King.
Cloaked in nothingness. His face half-shrouded by a hood. His eyes—endless.
He stepped into the chamber like it bowed to him.
And in his presence, even the shadows knelt.
Caelan tried to rise.
Couldn't.
Kael did not help him up.
He simply looked down at him.
And then he spoke—in a voice layered with ages, sorrow, power, and cold flame.
"You have seen enough for one night," he said, every syllable resonating like prophecy.
"But now, Caelan Duskwither…"
The shadows pulsed behind him.
"...we must speak of the First Crown."