The morning mist lay heavy over Hollowmarsh, clinging to the broken statues like gauze on old wounds. Birds had returned to the air—small, gray things that cried like they'd forgotten how to sing. Kian rose early, before the others, and stood atop Echo-Ward's observation deck as the sunlight finally broke through the clouds.
He didn't speak. Just watched. This land, despite its cracks, still lived. Which meant someone was holding it together.
Below, the others stirred one by one. Gellon was first, already checking the pulse generators on his rifle. Kess rubbed sleep from her eyes as she scribbled fresh glyphs onto a parchment spread across a rock. Jerie swore softly at the half-cooked ration he'd stepped on during the night.
"Charming," Veyna muttered behind him, brushing ash from her braid. "You really know how to spoil a battlefield breakfast."
Jerie looked up, deadpan. "Just trying to keep morale low. Makes success feel more surprising."
Veyna snorted once, almost a laugh.
Later, inside Echo-Ward's strategy room, Kess laid out what they knew.
"We're officially in contested territory. Cinderguard's current leadership doesn't recognize any singular ruler. Instead, we've got three factions: the nobles, the zealots, and the idealists—each with their own piece of system control."
Gellon leaned on the table, brow furrowed. "So they're all trying to wear the same crown?"
"Figuratively," Kess said. "Literally, it's gone. We took it."
"Which they'll notice," Kian said, arms folded. "The Vault had observers."
Jerie looked up. "Wait—those weird echoes in the wall?"
Kian nodded. "They were system-bound memory drones. The moment we breached the vault, someone was alerted."
Kess pointed to the map. "That someone is likely Lord Haleric of the Heraldic Court—he controls most of Cinderguard's system keys. The man's a fanatic, paranoid, and he's got his own Architect."
That silenced the room.
Veyna folded her arms. "Another Architect?"
"No official records," Kess said. "But rumors. A hidden builder, works in bone and smoke. Calls himself The Inheritor."
Gellon muttered, "Sounds friendly."
Jerie rolled his eyes. "Yeah, let's go say hi."
The plan was simple: get into Cinderguard before anyone else realized who they were, and gather intel on the factions. They disguised Echo-Ward by anchoring it beneath a rock formation, then traveled on foot in civilian leathers—nothing identifying, no obvious weapons.
It worked.
Until it didn't.
They'd barely entered the city's lower district—a shattered place of leaning towers and crumbling archways—when they were stopped by a patrol in black and gold.
Three knights. One bore a staff of twisted iron, glowing faintly with system lines.
"State your names," the lead knight barked. "And your purpose."
Kian stepped forward calmly. "Merchants. Seeking audience with the council."
The knight snorted. "You look like soldiers."
"Then perhaps," Kian said smoothly, "we're very bad merchants."
That got a small laugh from Veyna behind him.
But the knight wasn't amused. "You're being taken in for questioning."
Jerie muttered, "That was fast."
Before Kian could reply, a fourth figure stepped from the shadow of a leaning tower—cloaked, tall, eyes like flint. The patrol leader stiffened instantly.
"Seris," he muttered.
The woman didn't look at the guards. She looked at Kian.
"You're not from here," she said. Her voice was sharp, but not unkind. She studied each of them, gaze lingering a second longer on Kess. "And you're carrying system echoes not native to Braelthorn."
"We don't want trouble," Kian said evenly.
"Good," Seris said. "Because trouble has already found you."
They followed her in silence. Through back alleys, past barricaded homes and abandoned sanctuaries, down into the underlayer of Cinderguard—where moss-glass lanterns lit a place older than the kingdom itself.
Seris finally stopped before a circular stone chamber etched with broken glyphs. Inside, five figures waited—cloaked, masked, seated on what could only be called thrones of scavenged dignity.
"The Thorned Council," Seris said. "Speak carefully."
The central figure leaned forward. A man with a half-burnt mask and eyes like fading stars.
"You took the Crown," he said simply.
Kian didn't deny it.
"Then you are either a fool… or our last hope."
For the next hour, the truth unfolded.
The Thorned Council were remnants of the Throne-Speakers, keepers of system balance once loyal to the old monarchy. Now, hunted by the Heraldic Court and the Gutter Banners alike, they existed only in rumor. Their sanctuary was hidden by memory glyphs—unstable, flickering.
They had no army.
No system node.
But they had knowledge.
"The Inheritor intends to claim full system dominance by installing himself as a living node," the masked speaker said. "The Crown was his key. You've stolen it."
"Then he'll come for us," Gellon muttered.
Kian nodded. "Let him."
The speaker tilted his head. "You would face the architect who burned half the kingdom?"
"I'd rather burn it all," Kian said, "than let someone else shape it wrong again."
For a moment, silence.
Then the speaker laughed—softly, but with honest mirth.
"You're not like the others."
Kian met his gaze. "No. I build differently."
Later, as they were given a place to rest, Veyna stepped beside him and leaned against the wall.
"You really like making enemies," she said.
Kian half-smiled. "Not a fan of empires."
She bumped his shoulder. "Or crowns, apparently."
He looked at her, serious again. "You think I'm doing the right thing?"
Veyna didn't answer at once. Then: "I think you're doing the thing that lets me sleep at night. That counts."
Kian looked down.
And—for the first time in days—he felt the tension in his chest ease.
Outside, in the dead towers of Cinderguard, a different Architect watched from afar. Cloaked in crimson, fingers dripping with bone-etched code, he traced the path of the newcomers with a crooked smile.
"The boy has teeth," he murmured.
Behind him, machines whirred.
"But let's see how well he builds… under siege."
End of Chapter 35