The firelight in the Thorn Council chamber flickered as whispers surged through the room like smoke. It wasn't politics or war that stirred the murmurs tonight—it was a rumor, born in the streets of Dreadhold, carried on the lips of merchants, soldiers, and even children.
"She's his sister," someone had said.
"The princess of Velharys… the Dread King's own blood."
Now, the Thorns sat around the obsidian table, tense.
"She cannot stay," hissed Varyn, Thorn of the Southern Sands. "If the people believe her kin, what does that make us? Shadows in a royal reunion?"
"And yet the people love her," said Nyra, Thorn of the Veil. "She walks among them with grace. They bow not from fear, but reverence."
"She's dangerous," Varyn shot back. "What if it's a ploy? A long game by the old king?"
"She risked her life," Eclipse said, voice like iron wrapped in silk.
"More than once," Luna added. "And I've seen her eyes when she looks at him. That is not the gaze of a traitor."
Kael remained silent throughout the debate, his shadow stretched long across the floor, lit from behind by a hundred candles.
Finally, he rose.
"If loyalty is measured by blood, then none of you deserve to be seated here."
Silence.
"She stays. And if any of you have doubts, speak them to me. Not behind closed doors."
None did.
But one pair of eyes did not look away—hidden in the upper rafters, cloaked in silence.
A traitor.
Watching.
Waiting.
Outside the walls, in the dark hills beyond the capital, a whisper met another. The traitor knelt beneath a twisted dead tree, the sky split by red moonlight.
A figure stepped from the shadows—faceless, robed in black threads that moved like smoke.
"The king begins to waver," the figure said. "Good. Deliver the second mark."
"And then?"
The figure smiled. "Then the old soul wakes. And the true Kael will return… to us."
In the training grounds at dusk, Kael stood opposite Valdran, both breathing hard after a long spar. Their swords were sheathed, but neither seemed at peace.
Kael broke the silence.
"I felt something, Valdran. After the war. Inside. Like something older than me, clawing to be let out."
Valdran frowned. "The red eye again?"
Kael nodded. "It speaks now. Not in words, but… memories. Rage. Pain. Power. I don't know if it's me… or something waiting to consume me."
Valdran placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then you'll face it. With us."
Kael's voice dropped. "And if it's stronger than me?"
"Then we fall together," Valdran said simply. "But we will make it bleed."
Elsewhere, Lyra walked the halls of Dreadhold, the cold stone lit by the warm torches of the people's hearts. Everywhere she turned, citizens bowed to her—not out of obligation, but affection.
Children offered her flowers. Old soldiers nodded with respect. Merchants gave her food she didn't ask for.
"You're his sister," they would say. "You carry his kindness."
Tears welled in her eyes more than once.
In Velharys, she was a forgotten daughter. Here, she was family.
That night, Kael stood on the edge of the battlements, wind tugging at his cloak.
He hadn't slept.
And when he finally did, sleep betrayed him.
The dream returned—only now, the red eye was no longer distant.
It stared into him, ancient and endless.
"You wear the face of the Dread King," it whispered. "But your soul… belongs to me."
Kael tried to move, but his body was rooted to nothingness.
"You were mine before you were ever his son. You are the final vessel. And I… am coming."
Kael screamed into the void—
—and awoke, heart pounding, magic crackling uncontrolled around him, shattering the stone rail of the tower.
Down below, Luna and Eclipse stared up with wide eyes, their hands on their weapons—not in defense, but fear.
And in the shadows of the hall below, the traitor smiled.
The Eye was awakening.
As the red eye opens, Kael's past and future threaten to collide. With shadows moving in silence and the world's fate hanging by the threads of a wounded king, not even family may be enough to anchor his soul…