The Sovereign's throne seemed to darken as Kaelen's words hung in the chamber. Torches guttered, their flames dimming, as though the air itself bent to the weight of his defiance.
Arcturus rose slowly, every movement deliberate. His crown caught the light like fire on steel, his expression carved from stone. "You dare," he said at last, each word vibrating through the marble. "Cast-out. Heretic. Ghost that should have rotted in the ruins of Velaryn—you dare challenge me in my own court?"
Kaelen did not flinch. His robes stirred though no wind blew, threads of forgotten sigils glowing faintly in the weave. His eyes—violet, unblinking—met Arcturus's.
"You mistake me, Sovereign. I do not challenge. I warn. This boy carries not your chains, nor your blood. He carries the Mark—the brand your kind tried to bury with lies and slaughter."
The court erupted. Nobles shouted over one another, their voices crashing like waves against stone.
"The Crimson Mark lives?"
"Blasphemy!"
"Impossible—those lines were erased centuries ago!"
"Velaryn's madness resurfaces!"
Arcturus lifted a hand and silence fell. His fury was quiet, simmering, the kind that promised war. "You dare speak of the Mark. You—whose crimes nearly unmade the Council, whose hunger for forbidden lore left Velaryn in ash." His voice dropped to a venomous growl. "You are the last man who may speak of fate."
Kaelen's lips curved, not into a smile, but something sharper. "And yet, I am the only one here who has seen the truth. While you clutched your throne, Sovereign, I walked the Hollow Spire. I traced the first bindings of the Veil. I watched your predecessors carve the Mark from flesh and stone, fearing what it might awaken."
He stepped closer, his shadow spilling long across the marble. "Now it stirs again. And you would bind it as you did before. But the boy will not bend. He will burn."
Gasps rippled through the chamber. The Sovereign's guards shifted, hands on blades. General Kaelor sneered, half rising.
"Enough of this ghost's riddles. Sovereign, give the word and I'll take his head."
Arcturus's eyes never left Kaelen. "No," he said softly, dangerously. "His head will wait. His tongue will confess first. And then his soul will be unmade."
Kaelen's hand brushed his sleeve. For the briefest moment, the court glimpsed a shimmer of black fire coiling at his fingertips. Not lightning, not flame—something older, forbidden.
The nobles recoiled. Even the bravest among them crossed their chests with whispered wards.
Kaelen's voice was calm, yet it cut like a blade through the chamber's panic.
"Try to silence me, and you will find the heretic's tongue does not burn so easily. But heed this: Kael Rivenhart is not your weapon. He is your reckoning."
The hall seemed to hold its breath, suspended on the edge of something terrible.