The sun hung over the capital like a gilded crown, its light washing the marble towers of the Crowned Realm in gold. Airships hummed through sky-lanes above glittering spires; banners of the Seven drifted on the morning wind, their flame insignia alive in the light.
From the balcony of his hillside estate, Arion Voss, once the Seventh of the Seven, watched the world he'd helped build—one he had sworn never to rule again.
Below, the imperial city pulsed with energy: Resonance lines snaked beneath the streets, glowing faintly blue; vendors called out from crystal-glass stalls; the young trained in the Academies, dreaming of power and legacy. It was a good world—one worth the cost of the war they had fought long ago.
Arion adjusted the glove on his left hand, hiding the faint ember-mark that would betray what he truly was. His Codex rested open on the table beside him, its pages shifting on their own, whispering in forgotten tongues. Once, that whisper had meant command; now it was only memory.
Inside, laughter echoed—his daughters, Lina and Sera, sparring with wooden blades under the patient supervision of their mother.
Lysandra Voss moved like a storm in uniform. Director-General of the Crowned Realm's Defense Bureau, her word could mobilize armies; yet here she smiled, correcting her daughters' stance with the same discipline she gave her soldiers.
Arion watched them and felt that familiar warmth and ache. He had promised Lysandra that peace would hold—that their children would never know war. For ten years, he had kept that promise. Ten years without calling on the Codex. Ten years since the last summons from Kael.
The peace felt fragile—too still, too quiet. He could feel Resonance currents shifting beneath the Realm, threads vibrating out of harmony. Someone was tampering with the flow.
He closed the Codex and exhaled. Not today, he told himself. Today belongs to them.
That evening, the Imperial Broadcast shimmered across the city's sky-screens: Emperor Kael's address to the people.
"A decade of peace. A decade of unity under the flame," Kael's voice thundered, regal and heavy.
"But peace must be guarded. The shadows that once consumed our world stir again."
Arion frowned. Kael rarely spoke in riddles unless he was warning someone.
Moments later, his personal comm-crystal pulsed red—the ancient signal between the Seven. He hadn't seen it glow since the coronation.
He didn't answer.
Night fell over the Crowned Realm. The lights of the capital dimmed, one district at a time, as Resonance channels flickered with unseen interference. In the outer provinces, reports would come by dawn: missing shipments, broken power lines, entire caravans vanished.
Lysandra stood on the balcony with him, arms crossed.
"You're thinking too loudly again," she said, reading his thoughts as easily as a map.
"I'm out of practice," he replied with a faint smile. "Peace makes for terrible discipline."
"Then stay that way," she answered, though her eyes lingered on the Codex. "Let the world run itself for once."
He wanted to promise her that it would—that Kael's empire, their empire, would hold forever. But the air felt wrong tonight, a low vibration under his skin. The Resonance was shifting.
"The Guard's reporting Resonance surges near the old gates," she said quietly. "Same pattern as the ones from the other world."
He turned toward her. "You're already mobilizing."
"Of course. It's my job." She looked up at him, eyes sharp and soft all at once. "But it's not just mine, is it?"
He said nothing. The Codex at his side trembled, its sigil pulsing with faint gold.
"I told you," he murmured, "if Kael calls, I'll answer. Not before."
She touched his arm. "Then let's hope he never does."
Moments later, the old comm-crystal on his desk glowed red again—the private link of the Seven. Ten years silent. Ten years since the coronation.
He didn't answer.
Far away, in a lonely observatory bathed in Resonance light, Theal watched the same storm unfold on his monitors. Static crackled through the air as one of the ancient family seals pulsed across the screen—the first signal in ten years.
He rose from his chair, eyes reflecting the surge.
"Then it begins," he murmured. "Time to tell the family."