Kael woke before dawn, drenched in sweat.
The dream still lingered—no, not a dream. A vision. The red eye burned behind his closed lids, and the phantom weight of Lyra's lifeless body haunted his arms. He sat up slowly, eyes glowing faintly in the shadows of his chamber. Something inside him stirred—a whisper, a pulse. Like a hunter tasting blood.
He stood by the window, overlooking Dreadhold. The stone fortress, ever resilient, looked smaller now. Vulnerable. The morning light crept across its walls, but to Kael, it felt distant… faded.
Down the halls, his Thorns sensed it too.
Valdran watched his king more closely than ever. Eclipse and Luna, ever loyal, flanked him with subtle unease. Even Serik, the sharp-tongued sorcerer among the Thorns, exchanged glances with the others. Kael's aura had changed. His silence was heavier. His presence… darker.
And beyond the Thorns, whispers were spreading.
"The Dread King is cursed," murmured a noble to her companion.
"I heard he walks the halls in his sleep," said another. "Muttering in a forgotten tongue."
"His bloodline," hissed an elder general, "was born from tyrants. Maybe he's no better."
In the war room, the tension snapped.
A heated debate flared between Thorns and nobles over border defenses. Kael stood at the head of the table, hands clenched, listening—until a careless accusation was thrown.
"You're hiding something, Kael," Serik muttered, perhaps more boldly than he realized. "Even from us."
The room fell silent.
Kael's eyes locked onto him, and the air chilled.
"Say that again," he said, voice low but laced with pressure.
Shadows crawled along the edge of his cloak. The runes etched into his armor flared with dark light. Everyone felt it—like gravity pulling them to their knees. Serik stumbled back, sweat dripping down his brow.
"Kael," Lyra whispered, stepping forward. Her voice trembled, but her hand touched his. "Stop. Breathe."
He blinked—and it passed. The darkness receded. Kael turned away, jaw tight. He didn't speak again for the rest of the meeting.
Later, in the privacy of a shadowed chamber, Valdran found him.
Kael was seated at a stone bench, hunched forward, knuckles white. The fire flickered low, casting half his face in shadow.
"I saw her dead, Val," Kael said quietly. "In my arms. The god… it spoke to me. It knew my name. Not the one I was given. The true one."
Valdran's expression was unreadable. But his silence stretched long.
"You've always believed in my strength," Kael added. "But what if I'm not what I thought I was? What if that god… made me?"
Valdran finally spoke. "Then it made a man who still chooses his people. His family. That's what matters."
But in his eyes—there was fear.
That night, the castle held its breath.
The guards patrolling the outer walls found a messenger lying motionless near the central courtyard. His eyes wide open. Dead. A rune, jagged and ancient, had been carved into his chest. It pulsed faintly with red light—the same mark as the Eye.
A hush fell over Dreadhold.
Above, hidden in the rafters of a nearby tower, a figure watched. Hooded. Still.
Whether it was another Thorn… or something worse… no one knew.
And in the stillness of Kael's chamber, he stood once more before the mirror, hands trembling. His reflection flickered—and for a moment, the red eye blinked back at him from within his own gaze.