The candlelight in Kael's chambers flickered, casting shadows across his face as he sat alone, slumped on the edge of his bed. His breath was shallow. Sweat clung to his skin, and the faint red glow from his marked arm pulsed in rhythm with something ancient—something watching.
He hadn't slept in days.
Not really.
Every time he closed his eyes, he was pulled into a dream that didn't belong to him—visions of another life, another war, another voice whispering through the static.
But this time, the dream hadn't ended when he woke.
Outside, thunder cracked over Dreadhold. The skies had darkened without storm clouds. The Eye's influence crept through reality like mold on stone—slow, insidious, and alive.
Kael rose, throwing on his cloak, and left the room.
The corridors were quiet at this hour, but the silence wasn't peaceful. It was the hush of held breath. The servants had begun avoiding him. Even the guards kept their distance. His presence was starting to weigh on people, like gravity twisting too tight.
He walked aimlessly through the castle until he reached the inner courtyard, where stone trees glowed faintly in the rain. His thoughts spiraled inwards. The Eye had marked him… but why hadn't it taken him yet?
Or had it already started?
Elsewhere, in the kingdom of Elen Thalor…
Lyra swept past the great oaken doors of the royal archives, Luna and Eclipse flanking her in silence. She wore her obsidian armor now as second nature, the Dreadhold crest gleaming on her chest—a mark of loyalty not just to Kael, but to everything he stood for.
She had been gone only a few days, but it already felt like years. Her father, the king, hadn't dared to stop her—not after seeing the fire in her eyes.
The ancient tomes cracked as she turned the pages, dust rising like ash.
"Here," she muttered, pointing to a passage. Luna leaned in. "It speaks of the Soul Forge. A relic lost beneath the northern wastes—said to reshape souls at the command of a forgotten god."
"And the Eye?" Eclipse asked.
Lyra's expression darkened. "It's not just a curse. It's a beacon. A way for the god to rewrite those it marks. Not body. Not mind. But soul."
Back in Dreadhold…
The Thorns had gathered in the war chamber at Kael's request. He entered slowly, leaning slightly against the wall, but the power around him still crackled with tension.
"I asked you here… because I need you to hear this from me," Kael said, voice rough but steady.
Valdran watched him closely. Zevril's gaze narrowed. Ashara crossed her arms. Even calm Aelira showed worry.
"I can feel it changing me. The Eye. The god behind it. I don't know if I'll be able to fight it off forever. So if I fall—if I become something I shouldn't—then I need you to do what must be done."
"No," Aelira said instantly. "We—"
"Let me finish." Kael stepped forward, eyes glowing faintly red. "You are my family. Not just weapons. Not pawns. But if the king falls… the kingdom must survive."
He reached for the sword at his side, unsheathing it and laying it on the table before them. "Swear it to me."
After a long, tense silence… Valdran stepped forward first. "Then make this the last command you ever give us."
The others followed, one by one, each placing a hand to their chest or weapon. Not as killers. As protectors.
At the same time, near the Dreadlands border…
The Heroes of Velharys stood at a crossroads—literally and figuratively.
Seris Vale, leader of the group, had gathered them at a ruined outpost. The stone was scorched with old magic.
"He's losing control," she said. "We strike soon, or we risk watching the world burn again."
Not all agreed.
The storm-eyed Hero, Riven, stepped back from the others. "I saw him fight. I saw him hesitate, even when he could've killed us. That isn't madness. That's restraint."
Seris turned toward him, eyes narrowed. "Restraint? Or delay? The Eye doesn't consume. It waits."
Riven didn't answer, but his jaw clenched.
The divide was growing.
Back in Dreadhold, later that night…
Kael stood atop the tower, wind whipping his cloak.
Below, the ruined chapel where the Eye had first spoken to him lay silent.
But his arm burned again.
He looked down. The inverted mark now shimmered gold and black, like ink swirling in water.
Then he blinked—and he was standing inside the chapel without remembering how he got there.
The torches flickered, casting strange shadows.
Blood. On his hands. On the walls.
He staggered back.
"What did I do…?"
He turned—and in the mirror-like window, his reflection stared back with glowing red eyes and a smile not his own.
The Eye whispered again.
"You're cracking, little king. Let me in. Let me help you carry the crown."