The night sky above Dreadhold shimmered with stars, but Kael Veylor found no comfort in their light. His thoughts were shadows—shadows of words unspoken, of pain buried beneath layers of wrath and magic. He stood alone on one of the castle's high spires, the wind rustling his dark cloak like whispers of the past.
Behind him, Luna approached quietly. "You're troubled, my king."
"She looked at me with hope," Kael murmured. "And I answered her with hate."
"You gave her truth." Luna's voice was soft, yet unwavering. "Even if it bled."
Kael didn't answer.
Far away, beyond the Blackfang Mountains and the Crimson Ridge, the royal capital of Aurethiel was restless. Inside the Ivory Citadel, Princess Lyra Veylor paced her chamber, her thoughts consumed by the brother she never knew she had. The Dread King—Kael—the monster they feared. The family she had lost before even knowing him.
Seraphine watched her carefully. "You can't go after him alone."
"I must," Lyra said. "If no one else will seek the truth, I will."
"You saw him. He's dangerous."
"He's my brother."
That night, under a borrowed cloak and armed only with a dagger and a worn map, Lyra fled the palace. Disguised as a traveling bard's apprentice, she began her journey across kingdoms scorched by war and prejudice. Along the way, she saw firsthand the cruelty Kael had spoken of—demi-humans chained like beasts, villages burned for profit, children starving in gilded cities.
In those injustices, she found clarity.
And in the stolen moments of rest, she remembered the sorrow in Kael's eyes.
Weeks passed.
Meanwhile, back in Dreadhold, Kael summoned the full Circle of Thorns. Twelve souls entered the throne chamber, each bearing a mark of their domain. Luna stood to his right, Eclipse to his left, both silent and loyal.
Kael's voice echoed through the obsidian hall. "The council of Aurethiel will comply. The demi-human slaves will be returned. But our work is not done."
He lifted a scroll and unfurled it before them. "Our scouts have found chains still hidden in the merchant isles of Vardros and the Holy Empire of Calthea. These people still cling to their illusions of order. It's time we shatter them."
One of the Thorns, a silver-haired assassin named Nyzara, stepped forward. "You want us to strike?"
"No," Kael said. "I want them to choose. Bring word. They have one month to disband their trade routes and free the oppressed. If they do not, we will burn their chains to ash."
The Thorns bowed.
As the council disbanded, Kael remained behind.
Eclipse lingered. "You could have crushed them. Why show mercy?"
Kael closed his eyes. "Because once, I begged for mercy. And no one listened."
A messenger approached moments later, bowing deeply. "A letter, my king. From the Ivory Citadel."
Kael unfolded the parchment. His breath caught.
Handwritten. Soft ink. Familiar loops.
'I want to understand you, Kael. Not as a king. As my brother. —Lyra'
He stared at the letter, heart thudding beneath his armor.
"She's coming," he whispered.
Luna stepped forward, sensing his turmoil. "Will you turn her away again?"
Kael's jaw clenched. "I don't know."
Somewhere far beyond the borderlands, Lyra walked under moonlight, holding close a silver pendant she'd found in her mother's old keepsakes—a small token engraved with a name never spoken in court.
Kael.
Across broken kingdoms and buried truths, two hearts bound by blood march toward a fate neither can escape.