The Eye pulsed again that night.
Kael had placed it upon a stone pedestal in his subterranean refuge, layers of shadow woven around it like chains. And yet, no seal truly silenced it. The relic beat like a heart, steady and slow, whispering in a voice that bled into his thoughts.
He sat opposite it, one hand upon his knee, the other resting lightly upon the hilt of shadow-forged steel. He had not slept since the encounter with the vessels. Their words echoed in his mind: The Eye calls to its master.
"Master," Kael repeated under his breath, tasting the word. He narrowed his gaze. "Then who am I, if not the one who hears it most clearly?"
The shadows at his feet stirred, restless. They wanted him to claim it fully, to consume its power. But Kael was not reckless. He had seen what blind indulgence in power wrought—corruption, loss of will. His mother's notes warned of the same, though written in fragments, half-burned, as though she had feared to preserve too much truth.
He leaned forward. The orb rippled in answer, liquid glass trembling.
"Bind me, or be bound," a voice whispered from within.
Kael's lips curved faintly. "So it is a bargain you offer. Then let us test who binds whom."
He extended his hand. The shadows recoiled slightly, wary of what was to come. Kael touched the surface of the orb.
Instantly, the Veil yawned wide.
He stood not in his cavern, but on an endless plain of black water. Above, the sky was fractured into shards, each holding a different horizon—mountains burning, cities collapsing, armies of shade clashing with beasts of light.
And there, upon the water, a throne. Black stone, cracked but still defiant.
A figure sat upon it, vast and cloaked in endless night. No face, only twin embers burning violet.
"Child of shadow," the figure intoned. Its voice was a chorus of a thousand. "You wear my crown without earning it."
Kael straightened, though he felt the weight of that gaze press down like mountains. "If it is yours, then why does it answer to me?"
The figure's laughter rolled like thunder. "Because you are empty enough to receive it. But emptiness is not mastery."
From the plain rose shapes—warriors of shadow, countless, their blades aimed at Kael.
"Prove yourself. Or be consumed."
Kael's breath came calm. His hand moved to the hilt at his side. Shadows answered, wrapping around him like armor.
The first warrior lunged. Kael parried, steel against shade, sparks scattering across the water's surface. Another came from behind; Kael pivoted, summoning a tendril of black flame to lash out and dissolve the attacker.
Dozens more surged.
Kael fought with precision, every movement deliberate. His summons materialized at his side—three dark knights, faithful even here. They clashed with the tide, giving Kael the opening to strike deeper.
But for every enemy cut down, two more rose. The plain was infinite. The trial designed not to be survived, but to measure resolve.
Kael understood. It was not victory the throne demanded. It was defiance.
As another wave closed in, Kael planted his sword into the black water. Shadows erupted outward, a tidal wave consuming everything within reach. His knights dissolved in the flood, willingly, feeding his strength.
Kael stood tall amidst the chaos, eyes blazing violet. His voice carried across the plain.
"I am not your vessel. I am not your echo. I am the will that walks in the dark—and I do not kneel."
The warriors froze. One by one, they sank into the water, dissolving into mist. Silence reclaimed the plain.
The throne loomed nearer now, its occupant leaning forward.
"Interesting," the Monarch rumbled. "Perhaps you are more than emptiness."
The vision shattered.
Kael gasped as he opened his eyes. He was back in his cavern. The orb pulsed faintly, softer now, as though acknowledging him.
He flexed his fingers. Power lingered beneath his skin, sharper, heavier. His shadows bowed instinctively. Something in their bond had changed—strengthened.
Kael exhaled slowly. The Eye of Dusk had tested him, and he had not broken.
But he knew this was only the beginning. The relic was one fragment. Others waited. And if he could find them, he would not just borrow the Monarch's throne—he would claim it.
The reprieve did not last.
That same night, as Kael prowled the upper streets, he felt the shift. The city's rhythm stumbled. Patrol routes altered. Torches dimmed. An entire block of the merchant's quarter lay suspiciously quiet, as though emptied deliberately.
A trap.
Kael walked into it anyway.
At the square's center, twenty figures waited—cultists, each bearing runes that pulsed crimson. At their head stood the silver-haired woman from the cathedral, her eyes gleaming with fanatic certainty.
"So," she said softly, "the Monarch plays in the flesh."
Kael tilted his head, studying her. "You speak as though you've met me before."
Her lips curved. "Not you. The one before you. The one who sat the throne." She raised her hand. "You are nothing but his shadow."
Kael's voice dropped, sharp as a blade. "And yet here I stand, while your vessels turned to ash."
Her eyes narrowed.
The cultists drew blades. The square filled with the hum of runes activating, scarlet fire dancing along steel.
Kael exhaled, shadows stirring like wolves around him.
The Eye pulsed once in his cloak.
And the night ignited in violence.