The morning after the ambush, Varn's Hollow smoldered in silence.
Most of the villagers had vanished. The ones who remained were members of the Ouro Division, survivors who had fought in the shadows while we battled in the square. They now moved swiftly, removing bodies, disabling lingering sigils, burning Silencer insignias into ash.
Cira stood near the central firepit, her cloak darkened with blood—not hers. Her expression was unreadable.
I watched the canyon walls glow faintly in the rising light, my mind still echoing with the words the Executioner had spoken:
"The Harbinger sees you… and finds you lacking."
He had meant to kill me. But it hadn't been a test of strength. It was something deeper.
The Harbinger was watching through their eyes.
Learning me.
Planning around me.
And I had a feeling he wasn't the only one watching.
A Scholar in Exile
Cira gathered us near midday and unfurled a narrow scroll marked with ouroboros symbols.
"We can't stay here," she said. "And if you're going to survive what comes next, you'll need someone who understands the full scope of what the Crown Mark means."
"You mean more than you do?" Darian asked.
Cira shot him a glance. "I'm a field agent. I monitor and contain. I don't decipher prophecy."
Kieran tilted his head. "Who does?"
She tapped the map. "His name is Ashen Veyne. Formerly High Seer of Ouro's Prime Library. Exiled fifteen years ago for refusing to suppress his research into Harbinger pathways."
"Elara frowned. "Why was he exiled?"
Cira hesitated. "He believed the Marks weren't curses… but invitations."
That word hung heavy in the air.
I stepped forward. "Where is he now?"
"South," Cira replied. "In the Deadwind Expanse. No man goes there unless they want to be forgotten."
I nodded. "Then it sounds perfect."
The Expanse Beckons
We left Varn's Hollow at dusk, using a route known only to Ouro Division operatives—a hidden trail that wound beneath the canyons and emerged into the open plains days from any official road.
The terrain shifted from rock to dust, from dust to dry grass that rustled even without wind. As we moved south, the world grew quieter. Not just in sound, but in feeling.
Even the mana thinned.
It was like stepping out of reality and into the forgotten edge of the world.
One night, as the others slept, I sat alone with the Mark exposed, the golden threads now reaching past my shoulder and branching slightly onto my chest.
I focused, trying to reach into it—to feel it without activating it.
And for the first time, I heard something inside it speak.
A voice like mine, but not.
"You want to master me. But I am not a sword. I am a door."
Then silence.
Whispers of the Crown
By the fifth day, the terrain began to shift again—from dry grasslands into cracked stone flats, riddled with crevices that glowed faintly at night with veins of forgotten energy.
The Deadwind Expanse.
We moved slowly, navigating unstable ground and avoiding mana-pools that shimmered with unreality, warping reflections and creating false illusions of movement. The very ground seemed to whisper when we walked, the air heavy with dust and buried memory.
Elara stayed close to me that night, her eyes lingering on the Mark.
"You've changed," she said softly.
"I feel it," I replied.
"No… not just your power. You."
I looked at her.
She stared at the flickering crest on my arm. "You don't speak like you used to. Your eyes drift. Like you're remembering something that hasn't happened yet."
I clenched my hand. "Maybe I am."
She reached out, brushing her fingers against mine. "Promise me something?"
"Anything."
"When the time comes—don't lose who you are."
Ashen Veyne
We found him three days later.
His home was carved into the base of an obsidian spire that jutted from the center of a dry lake, surrounded by fallen statues of gods no one remembered. The entrance was marked with seven symbols—each a distorted version of the Pathway sigils.
As we approached, a barrier flared—a sphere of black and gold that halted us in our tracks.
Then, a voice.
"You're either very brave or very stupid."
A man emerged from the darkness, robes wrapped tightly against the wind, hair long and silver, beard braided with tiny silver charms. His eyes were pale blue, almost translucent, and they glowed faintly as they locked onto me.
Then widened.
"You bear the Crown," he said.
I nodded.
He exhaled and motioned for us to enter.
The Scholar's Truth
Ashen's study was chaos—walls covered in notes, floor stacked with ancient relics, books that hummed with locked power. Every corner pulsed with subtle energy, like the whole space was alive.
He didn't waste time.
"You found the Crown Mark. Which means the seal is breaking. And the Harbinger is no longer sleeping."
"I know," I said.
He stared at me. "But do you know what the Crown means?"
I hesitated. "It's power. A pathway."
He smiled faintly. "No. It's a seat."
I blinked. "A what?"
Ashen approached, brushing dust from an old chart. "The Crown is not a weapon. It's not even a mark. It's a throne—a metaphysical claim over a reality-altering force. Those who bear it are candidates. Not for destruction… but for dominion."
"The Harbinger rules through the Crown," Cira murmured.
Ashen nodded. "Yes. And he wasn't the first."
He turned to me. "There have been others. And each one has faced a choice: become a vessel… or shatter the throne."
The Choice Ahead
Ashen led me to a vault beneath his study. Inside was a pedestal, and on it—a crown of woven starlight, floating inches above a stone seal.
"I forged this replica from the remnants of a fallen Crown Bearer," he said. "He chose destruction. His soul unraveled."
I stared at the floating object.
It pulsed in time with my heartbeat.
"Why show me this?"
"Because you're not just marked," Ashen said. "You're resonating. The Crown is responding to you because you are beginning to claim it."
"I never wanted a throne."
Ashen stepped back. "The throne doesn't care what you want."
The Forsaken Stir
That night, while the others rested, Ashen and I sat beside the pedestal, speaking in whispers.
He told me of the Forsaken—gods who had once ruled through belief, shaping continents with stories and blood.
"They were not born gods," he said. "They were made into gods by fear and reverence. And when that reverence fell… they became monsters."
He leaned forward.
"The Harbinger is the last of them. The final echo of divinity made real. And now, he's searching for something he lost."
I met his gaze. "What did he lose?"
Ashen pointed at my chest.
"You."