> They returned from the ruins at dusk, silence thick between them. The ground had shifted. Neither of them spoke the name of what had awakened, but they knew. The Council's summons came before the moon rose.
---
The chamber was silent.
Stone roots coiled from the ceiling, fossilized veins of magic winding around ancient torches that burned with no flame. The Council had not gathered here in centuries—not since the last time that name had been spoken.
Now they sat, cloaked in shadow, with their faces half-lit—some in awe, others in veiled horror.
Renak was the first to break the silence. "It's true then? He remembers?"
Lucian stood at the center of the circle, Kyrell beside him. Not touching, but near enough that his presence carved space in the air.
"He remembers enough," Lucian said. "More will come."
Elder Silas leaned forward, eyes like slits. "You mean Azerian walks again."
Kyrell didn't flinch.
Lucian's voice was steady. "He was made, not born. Forged through pain. Betrayed by those who feared his bloodline. He was never your threat—only your mirror."
Another Elder—a woman with silver-streaked braids and skin marked with sigils—spoke, her voice thick with ancient cadence. "The Bone-Tongued Prophecy warned of his return. The Boy Who Burned. The Silence-Born. The Mirror to the End."
Silas laughed once, bitterly. "And we buried that prophecy. For a reason."
Renak's voice cracked like ice. "You buried it because it spoke of your downfall."
Kyrell finally spoke.
"When they tore me from the forest, when they erased my name, they didn't just try to kill me… They tried to silence the magic in me that couldn't be tamed."
He took a breath, his voice raw.
"I remember now. I was meant to bridge the worlds. Vampire and mortal. Flame and bone. And someone feared that power."
The Elders whispered among themselves.
Then, the chamber groaned—and from behind the throne of stone, a figure emerged.
The Seer.
Veiled in spider-thread silks, her mouth sewn shut but her eyes… glowing like moons drowned in ink.
A younger councilman paled. "She should not be awake."
"She woke herself," Silas whispered.
The Seer stepped forward, dragging the hem of her gown behind her like a grave cloth. Her fingers traced the sigils on the floor. One by one, they began to burn.
Kyrell's knees buckled.
Lucian caught him.
Then the Seer spoke—not from her mouth, but from the air around them. Her voice came like smoke through the bones of the room.
> "He who bleeds black will burn gold.
He who kissed death will wake it.
The shadow of the sun shall choose him or lose him.
The Hunger will crown him."
The prophecy hung there, wet and ancient.
Lucian whispered, "What does that mean?"
Kyrell's fingers curled around his. "It means I was never meant to survive."
"But you did," Lucian whispered. "You survived me."
The Seer lifted her hand—and pointed not at Kyrell, but at Lucian.
The room tensed.
> "And the one who weeps blood will betray the throne for love."
A ripple of dread.
Elder Silas stood.
"This ends now."
But Kyrell stepped forward.
"No. This begins now."
---
Elsewhere...
In a tower choked with frost and candlelight, Mara watched the reflection fade.
She had seen it all.
Her hands trembled, ink smeared across the parchment she had used to record every word.
Behind her, Damien emerged from the shadows.
"You saw it?" he asked.
Mara didn't answer.
He stepped closer. "You should be glad. You were right. He was never just a boy."
Mara turned, her expression hollow.
"I don't want to be right. I wanted to be chosen."
---