The torches of Dreadhold burned low as the dark clouds thickened overhead, casting the fortress in an eerie twilight. The wind howled through the ramparts like an omen, whispering fears only the brave dared name. Inside, the Dread King lay still.
Kael's chambers were unusually silent. The Second Mark upon his chest pulsed faintly beneath the bandages wrapped across his torso. His once-piercing gaze was dimmed by exhaustion, his body weakened from the night the Eye had spoken. For the first time, the King of Thorns did not rise with the dawn.
Around him, the Twelve gathered—his Thorns, his family, each bearing the weight of his silence. Valdran stood closest, arms crossed, jaw tight. Luna and Eclipse remained shadowed near the edge, quiet and watchful. Silence reigned, until Kael stirred.
"I'm… sorry," he rasped.
The word struck like lightning. Kael, the man who had weathered gods and demons, apologized.
"I've endangered you all," he continued, his voice stronger with each breath. "My strength is no longer only my own. And if I ever lose myself—if what stirs inside me takes over—I need you to end it. Not as your king… but as your brother."
"No," Luna said sharply, her tail lashing. "You're not dying that easy."
Eclipse nodded solemnly. "If you fall, we fall with you. But if it comes to that... we will obey."
The others gave their nods. Some solemn. Some reluctant. All loyal.
Then, the chamber door creaked open.
A cloaked figure slipped inside, blade gleaming with a sheen of poison.
Everything happened in seconds.
Kael's body was too slow to react—but a blur of crimson intercepted the blade mid-thrust. Steel met steel. Sparks flashed. The intruder reeled back, clutching a bleeding hand.
Lyra stood over Kael's bed, obsidian armor catching the firelight, the crest of Dreadhold emblazoned on her chest like a silent roar. Her eyes burned.
"You dare raise a hand against my brother?"
With a flick of her blade, she ran the assassin through. The body crumpled, unmoving. Blood stained the stone.
She didn't flinch.
"I'm not the one being protected anymore," she whispered, mostly to herself. "Not this time."
She turned to Kael, kneeling beside his bed. Her hand gently brushed his cheek. "Rest. I'll find the answers. I'll fix this."
Then she rose.
Luna and Eclipse stepped beside her, each drawing their hoods. Together, the three of them descended the stairs of Dreadhold, passing through stunned guards and wary nobles. But none dared stop her.
When Lyra stepped through the gates into the cold wind, clad in black and bearing the Dreadhold sigil, she looked every inch the Queen of Wrath.
Far across the land, in the marble halls of the Moonstone Court, silence fell as Lyra entered the throne room.
King Veyran—her father—sat tall and cold upon his throne. But his gaze shifted when he saw her.
Not the Lyra he had known, the delicate strategist. But a warrior.
Her armor was scuffed, yet regal. Luna and Eclipse flanked her like living shadows. She didn't kneel.
"I've come for your archives," she said. "There is something ancient stirring. I need to know what it is."
"And why," the king asked, his voice tight, "should I allow a daughter who abandoned her homeland to waltz in like a conqueror?"
"Because I didn't come for your approval," she said evenly. "I came for the truth."
Back in Dreadhold, the air remained thick with dread.
Kael stirred in bed, dreams haunted by red eyes and shifting shadows. The poison hadn't reached him—but something else had. Something older. Deeper.
Outside his chamber, the Heroes of Velharys finally arrived, riding under banners of gold and silver. Their leader, Seris Vale, cast her gaze toward the fortress with disdain.
"We're too late for the battle," she muttered. "But not too late to decide its future."
Behind her, another hero stepped forward—a tall man with dark bronze skin and storm-grey eyes.
"You felt it too, didn't you?" he whispered. "The pull from this place. The echo of power. Something's changing."
Seris narrowed her eyes.
"Then we'd best see what the so-called Dread King is hiding."
But within the halls, the whispers had already begun to shift.
About Lyra. About her armor. About her claim.
And about Kael—who they once feared, but who now slept beneath the weight of gods.