Rebels did not stop running until the fires of Mezalith were only distant shadows on the horizon.
Kaelen staggered through a ravine, his lungs burning, every muscle screaming from exhaustion. Ren clung to his arm, equally drained but silent. The boy's eyes were hollow, as if the city's fall had carved out whatever innocence remained in him.
When at last Lyra raised a hand, the group halted in the shelter of an overhang of stone. The night air was cold, carrying the scent of ash and iron. Above, the stars burned faintly, dimmed by the veil of smoke stretching from the city's ruins.
Kaelen dropped to the ground, pressing the shard against his chest to quiet its whispers. The light had dulled since the clash with Maltherion, but it still pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat not his own.
The rebels—fewer now than before—took stock of their supplies, their wounds, their dead. Silence hung heavy.
Lyra stood apart, gazing back toward the smoldering horizon. The firelight flickered across the scar on her cheek, hardening her expression.
Finally, Kaelen broke the silence. "Where are we going?"
Lyra didn't turn. "South. There's a stronghold in the Shattered Hills. What's left of us will regroup there."
Kaelen frowned. "And then?"
Lyra's eyes cut toward him. "Then we plan how to kill gods."
The words sent a chill through him. He had seen what it took merely to wound one. And still, she spoke as if their rebellion was not madness but destiny.
Ren's voice, quiet, trembled. "If we fight the gods… who leads us?"
At this, the rebels glanced at one another. Uneasy. Expectant.
Lyra drew a breath, then turned to face them all. Her hand fell to the hilt of her blade, not as a threat but as if grounding herself.
"The gods burned Mezalith because its bloodline defied them. Because there was one heir they could not bend."
Kaelen blinked. "An heir?"
Lyra's gaze fixed on Ren.
Kaelen froze.
The boy shrank back, clutching Kaelen's sleeve tighter. "No," Ren whispered.
The rebels bowed their heads—not to Kaelen, not to Lyra, but to the boy.
Ren's face went pale. "Don't."
Kaelen's voice came out hoarse. "What are you saying?"
Lyra's tone softened, but only slightly. "The boy is no orphan. He is Prince Rhenivar—last heir to the throne of Mezalith. The gods slaughtered his kin, burned his city, because they feared him. If he lives, the bloodline lives. And if the bloodline lives…"
"…then the throne lives," another rebel finished.
Ren shook his head violently, eyes brimming with tears. "I'm not a prince. I'm not. I just—"
Kaelen grabbed Lyra's arm, anger flaring. "You kept this from me? You dragged us through fire and ruin with this secret?"
Lyra yanked free. "Would you have carried him if you'd known? Or would you have left him for dead like the others?"
Kaelen's breath caught. He wanted to argue—but he remembered that first night, the boy at the edge of the flames, clinging to him with desperate eyes. Had he known then who Ren truly was, would he have risked his life?
The shard pulsed, feeding the silence.
Ren trembled, his voice breaking. "I don't want to be a king. I just want to live."
Lyra knelt before him, her tone softening for the first time. "You don't have to want it. You only have to survive. The gods fear you, Ren. That is enough."
The boy's eyes darted to Kaelen, pleading. "Please… don't let them make me."
Kaelen swallowed hard. He saw not a prince, not a throne, but the same boy who had clung to him since the fires began. A boy burdened with a destiny he had never asked for.
And yet—he also saw the way the rebels looked at him. Not as a child, but as a banner. A reason to fight.
The weight of it pressed down like the shard itself.
Before Kaelen could speak, one of the rebels approached from the shadows. He was older, his beard streaked with gray, his armor dented but intact. His voice carried the weariness of one who had buried too many comrades.
"We bled for the throne," he said quietly. "We will bleed again. If the prince lives, the gods will fall. It is written."
Kaelen snapped. "Written where? In the ashes of Mezalith? In the graves of the dead?"
The man glared. "In prophecy."
The shard's whisper coiled like smoke: A throne broken. A crown reborn. A fire that devours gods.
Kaelen shivered. He hated how the words echoed too closely.
Lyra straightened, her decision made. "The heir without a throne will be our blade. With the shard in one hand and his bloodline in the other, the gods will bleed."
Kaelen rose, defiance burning. "You speak of him like a weapon. He's a boy."
Lyra's eyes met his. "So were you, once. And yet here you are, carrying the shard. None of us chose this. But fate does not care for choice."
Silence. Only the crackle of distant fire remained.
Ren buried his face in Kaelen's cloak, trembling. Kaelen held him close, glaring at the rebels.
"If you want to fight gods, fight them yourselves. But you'll not break him to do it."
Lyra studied him for a long, heavy moment. Then she turned away. "We'll see."
The night stretched on, heavy with the unspoken. Above, the stars burned faintly, veiled by ash. And in the heart of that darkness, a boy wept—not for a throne lost, but for a future he did not want.
And Kaelen, thief and liar, found himself standing not against gods, but against men who would make gods of thrones.
Dawn broke slow and red across the jagged hills, painting the sky the color of blood. The rebels stirred from restless sleep, some nursing wounds, others sharpening blades that had dulled against divine armor. Every face bore the same haunted look—the memory of fire, of screams, of gods that walked like storms.
Kaelen had not slept. He sat near the boy, eyes hollow, the shard clenched in his hands. Its whispers had not ceased all night. Protect the heir. Protect the line. Protect the fire that will burn the gods.
He hated how its words tangled with Lyra's. He hated more that a part of him believed them.
Ren awoke with a start, clutching his chest as if from some nightmare. His eyes found Kaelen at once. The boy's voice cracked. "Are we safe?"
Kaelen forced a grim smile. "For now. The hills hide us. The gods hunt slower at dawn."
Ren swallowed, unconvinced. His hands trembled as he drew the cloak tighter around himself. "They won't stop, will they? Not until I'm gone."
Kaelen wanted to lie. But the truth was a blade sharper than any he'd carried. "No," he admitted. "They won't."
A voice cut through the morning air. "Then we make them stop."
Lyra strode forward, her hair tied back, her armor hastily repaired but gleaming faintly in the rising sun. She looked more commander than rebel now, more queen than soldier.
"We move by noon," she declared. "The stronghold waits. And so does the rebellion."
The older rebel—the gray-bearded one—stepped forward. "And the prince?"
Lyra's eyes flicked to Ren. "He walks. His blood is our banner."
Ren stiffened. Kaelen rose to his feet, stepping between them. "He's a child, not a banner. You'll break him before the gods ever can."
Lyra's stare hardened. "And if he dies cowering behind you, Kaelen? If the bloodline ends in the dirt because you wanted to coddle him? What then?"
Kaelen clenched his fists. "Then we find another way."
Lyra scoffed, voice low. "There is no other way. The throne was more than stone and crown. It was covenant. The gods knew this—that's why they slaughtered his kin. That's why they burned Mezalith. The boy isn't just heir to a throne. He is heir to defiance itself."
Ren shook his head furiously. "Stop! Stop saying that. I don't want any of it!" His voice cracked high, raw, like a wound torn open. "I don't want a throne! I don't want to fight gods! I just want my family back!"
The camp fell silent. Even the wind stilled.
Kaelen dropped to his knees before the boy, gripping his shoulders. "Listen to me, Ren. You don't have to want this. You don't have to be what they say. You're not a weapon. You're not a crown. You're you."
Ren's eyes brimmed, his small frame trembling. "But if I'm me… everyone dies."
The words hung like chains. Kaelen's throat tightened. He had no answer.
The shard pulsed. Its whisper hissed louder, insistent: The heir must rise. Or all fall.
Kaelen squeezed his eyes shut, resisting the voice. But deep down, he feared it was right.
By midmorning, the rebels marched south, their shadows long on the hills. Kaelen walked at Ren's side, never letting go of the boy's hand. The shard hung at his belt, wrapped in cloth to muffle its glow.
The journey was slow, heavy. Some rebels whispered oaths of loyalty to Ren when they thought he wasn't listening. Others gazed at him with awe, with hope, with something close to worship. It made the boy shrink smaller with each step.
At midday they stopped by a stream to drink. Kaelen crouched, splashing his face with the cold water, trying to clear the fog in his mind.
Beside him, Ren whispered, "Why do they look at me like that?"
Kaelen's chest ached. "Because they think you're the last light in a dark world."
Ren shook his head. "But I'm not light. I'm just scared."
Kaelen met his gaze, fierce. "Good. Fear means you're still human. The gods don't fear—they only destroy. That's why we need you to stay afraid. To stay real."
Ren blinked, as if the words were strange comfort. Then he asked, softer, "And if I can't?"
Kaelen gripped his shoulder. "Then I'll be afraid for you. Always."
For the first time since the fires, the boy managed a faint, fragile smile.
As the sun dipped lower, the hills gave way to crags of black stone. The air grew colder, heavier. Lyra signaled for a halt near the ruins of an old watchtower.
They climbed the broken steps, setting camp atop the cracked foundation. From there, the world stretched wide—the smoking scar of Mezalith to the north, endless wilds to the south.
Lyra stood at the edge, staring southward, as if already seeing the stronghold. Kaelen approached, the boy asleep against his shoulder.
"You're going to make him into something he isn't," Kaelen said quietly.
Lyra didn't turn. "I'm going to make him into what the world needs."
Kaelen's jaw tightened. "And what if that breaks him?"
Lyra's eyes, when she finally looked at him, were steel. "Better a broken king than no king at all."
Kaelen's stomach knotted. He turned away, clutching the boy tighter.
Behind them, the shard throbbed with a heat that felt like fire waiting to devour the world.
And above, unseen by any, wings blotted out the stars. A god descended, drawn by bloodline and shard alike.
The heir without a throne was no longer hidden.
The hunt had truly begun.