The storm outside Dreadhold mirrored the storm inside its king.
Kael sat alone on the stone steps of the throne room, still in partial armor, his breath visible in the cold air. No guards, no Thorns, no ceremony. Just silence and the weight of power humming around him like a rising tide. His eyes, once steady and bright, now flickered with crimson threads beneath the surface—unsettled and dangerous.
He hadn't slept since the last dream.
Or maybe he had… and never woke.
He could still feel the Eye, whispering not with words, but with the weight of truths too old to understand. Memories not his own drifted through his mind—dying stars, broken kings, a sword forged in sorrow. And always, always, the voice:
"Break, and I will build myself upon your ruin."
A distant knock interrupted his thoughts. He didn't answer. Valdran entered anyway.
The general looked exhausted. But behind his weariness was something harder—concern.
"You haven't left this hall in two days," Valdran said quietly, his gaze lingering on Kael's trembling hands. "You need to rest."
"I can't." Kael's voice was hoarse. "I closed my eyes yesterday and saw Lyra dead again. This time, I think I was the one who killed her."
Valdran hesitated. "It was just a dream."
"No." Kael stood. "The Eye doesn't show dreams. It shows what could be—and what it wants to become real."
Valdran stepped closer. "Then stop hiding. Lead. Or we lose everything before the war even begins."
Meanwhile, far from Dreadhold, Lyra walked through the vast halls of the royal library of Velharys. The obsidian armor of Dreadhold gleamed in torchlight, her presence like a shadow draped in fire. Behind her moved Luna and Eclipse, their glowing eyes alert, their silence intimidating.
Nobles and scholars whispered as she passed. Many remembered her as the lost princess. But now… she was something else. A weapon forged under a different banner.
She stopped at a locked chamber deep within the archive. Forbidden texts, sealed by royal decree. Her crest—both her bloodline and Kael's sigil—was enough to grant her entry.
Inside, Luna lit the chamber with a flick of void flame.
Lyra read in silence for hours. And then she found it.
"In the age of ruin, the god without name fell to man's trickery. His eye was taken. His name devoured. But the soul of that god was not slain—only scattered. And should his soul find its reflection, the name will rise again."
She closed the book slowly.
If the Eye knew Kael's soul, if it could rewrite him… he might become something else entirely.
Not lost.
Erased.
Back in Dreadhold, the Thorns convened in private. Tensions cracked like ice beneath them.
"He's changing," muttered one.
"He's still our king," said another.
"Or he's the vessel of a god that should've stayed buried."
Valdran entered the chamber. His presence quieted the room, but didn't remove the fear.
"I've seen this before," said Ser Varric, the Iron Thorn. "It starts with dreams. Then accidents. Then corpses."
"He told us to kill him if he loses control," said Valdran grimly. "But do any of you have the strength to do it?"
The silence was an answer.
Outside the castle, a lone raven flew into the storm.
Far below, beneath Dreadhold's roots, the cult of the Eye moved in shadow.
A rune pulsed to life on a buried altar. One of the chained idols cracked, just slightly.
Something was coming.
Kael stood before a mirror in his chambers, his bare chest marked by glowing lines—red and black, forming shapes he didn't recognize. The Eye's power was changing him. His magic flared at random. When he walked, shadows bent unnaturally.
He clenched the sides of the mirror.
"I am Kael," he whispered. "I am not yours."
But the Eye laughed softly within him.
"You were never yours to begin with."