Night had never felt this heavy.The forest pressed in like a closing fist as Kaelen and Seralyn rode through the hollowed lands of Eldreth, moonlight twisting on their armor, shadows tugging at their thoughts. Neither had spoken in hours.
Kaelen kept his gaze forward, his knuckles white around the reins. His blade, still nicked from the deflection of Nox Obscura, pulsed faintly at his side — not with magic, but with dread.The whispers from the Throne Hall echoed in his skull still. Not words, but weight. Presence.
Seralyn rode beside him, silent as a funeral pyre, her face carved from stone. Only her eyes betrayed her — flickering, sharp, storm-laced.When she spoke, her voice was low. "You saw what I did, didn't you?"
Kaelen nodded. "He could have killed us."
"But he didn't."
A beat passed.
"Why?" she asked. But it wasn't really a question.
They emerged through the final veil of trees, and the Sanctum of Vaelgard came into view — a massive circular fortress carved into the cliffside, glowing faintly with runes. Home to the Order of the Flamebound — defenders of light, hope, and the last unbroken line against the Shadow Court.
Guards spotted them instantly, horns blew, and the gates rumbled open.
They were welcomed not as victors… but as survivors.
Inside, the mood turned colder.
Commanders, priests, and sages gathered in the war-hall as Kaelen and Seralyn stood beneath the ancient banners. Maps of the world were unfurled before them — all of them outdated now, each one failing to account for the tide Vorath had turned to black.
High Commander Orvan Thael, a broad man with eyes like steel and a voice like anvil strikes, crossed his arms."You faced him," he said slowly. "And yet you returned alive?"
Kaelen nodded. "He appeared before us in the Throne Hall. Spoke. Fought. Let us live."
Murmurs erupted like fire in dry grass.
"You expect us to believe the Lord of Midnight—""He has no mercy—""He left witnesses?"
Seralyn's voice cut clean through. "He remembered a name."
The silence that followed was deathly.
"A name," repeated Orvan. "Whose?"
Kaelen spoke now, his voice low. "Lyssara."
The name landed like a hammer. The older sages flinched. Even the palewardens in the back took a step away from the flame-lit wall.
"You speak of ghosts," one of the priests whispered."Of something erased," said another."That name was struck from all archives. Sealed by the gods themselves."
Kaelen stepped forward. "Then maybe it's time we asked why."
Later that night, Kaelen stood alone beneath the high tower, looking out at the storm-churned sea.
He remembered Vorath's eyes. Not the cold, burning hatred of a tyrant. Not the smugness of a man who thought himself invincible.
But… pain.Buried. Caged. Shrouded in endless arrogance and silence.
He remembered the whispers again."Two souls bearing light… before the Throne of Night…"
He didn't understand what it meant. But he felt it changing him. As if just standing before that throne had pulled something from his soul and left something else in its place.
Behind him, Seralyn approached. She spoke quietly. "He knows us."
Kaelen turned. "What if he always did?"