The wind was colder now.
Not the chill of mountains or war-torn stone—but of something older, colder, brushing against Aeron's spine like fingers from a forgotten grave.
He stood in the ruins of an ancient temple—buried beneath Thornmar, rediscovered by accident when one of the Obsidian Thorn architects broke through a sealed passage.
The moment Aeron entered, the air recognized him.
The torches flared.
The shadows bent toward him.
Symbols on the walls—curved in the language of the old gods—lit with ghostfire.
And then…
they spoke.
> "You've come home, Aeron Kael."
His heart stopped.
Not because of the voice.
But because of the name.
> No one should know that name.
Vandrak and Xyreya paused behind him.
> "Kael?" Vandrak muttered. "That was the name of the child... the boy that—"
> "Died," Aeron cut him off. "That boy died."
> "But he didn't stay dead," said the voice again.
From the end of the temple, a mirror rose from the earth—tall, blackened, cracked. But instead of a reflection, it showed a memory.
A child, barely ten, standing at the gates of Vaelinth. Bloodied. Mute. Watching as his village burned behind him.
The priests offered him bread. Clothing. Shelter.
And eventually, a sword.
> "You were their blade before you were hers," the voice said. "A divine orphan. Trained in holy silence. You were one of them."
> "No," Aeron whispered. "That wasn't me."
> "Liar."
The mirror's surface boiled—and the child grew.
Into a soldier.
Then a killer.
Then a champion.
Until, one night, in that same temple city, he saw the execution.
> Velzaria.
Bound in silver chains. Wings clipped. Eyes defiant even as she bled before a cheering crowd.
Aeron—Kael—had stood in that crowd.
Had watched.
And something broke inside him that night.
He didn't know why.
Didn't know who she was.
Only that something in her screams was familiar.
Like a song he once loved, forgotten and half-remembered in a dream.
> "You didn't just fall from Heaven," the voice hissed. "You chose to."
Aeron stepped back.
> "Shut it."
The walls cracked.
Shadows thickened.
> "You were theirs. And you will always be."
> "I am not Kael," he snarled. "I am Aeron. Her Hand. Her vengeance."
The mirror shattered.
But behind it…
Lay something buried.
A crown.
Small. Dented. Marked with the same sunburst sigil from the temples of Vaelinth.
Vandrak knelt beside it.
> "You were their heir."
> "No," Aeron whispered. "I was their mistake."
He turned to Velzaria—who had silently entered the chamber, watching the whole time.
Her eyes weren't angry.
They weren't even surprised.
Just... sad.
> "Why didn't you tell me?" Aeron asked.
> "Because I needed a weapon," she said. "Not a soul."
A long silence.
Then she approached—placing her hand on his shoulder.
> "But now… I need both."
The war room in Thornmar burned with magic.
Velzaria stood at the head of the table, eyes glowing faintly, her claws dancing across the surface of a living war-map. Cities shifted. Armies pulsed like veins. And in the center of it all—
Vaelinth.
The last holy bastion.
The sun-wrapped throne of the gods.
Built atop the original seal—the one that once held Velzaria in chains.
> "Their strongest fortress," she said coldly. "But also their most vulnerable."
Xyreya stepped forward, her eyes narrowed.
> "No underground routes. No direct portals. It's too protected."
> "Which is why we don't sneak in," Velzaria said.
Aeron watched silently as she waved her hand across the map.
> "We'll march through the Plains of Hollow Light. Openly. Loudly. Force them to gather everything they have."
> "You want them to see us coming?" Vandrak asked.
> "No," she said. "I want them to fear it."
Aeron finally spoke.
> "They'll expect that. They'll prepare for it."
> "Good," Velzaria said, turning toward him. "Then they'll be blind to what's coming from within."
The room fell silent.
> "The temple vaults," she explained. "Under Vaelinth, there is a chamber hidden even from most of their priests. A relic vault. That's where they keep the true anchors of the seal."
Aeron's eyes narrowed.
> "You're sending me inside."
She nodded.
> "You, Xyreya, and one other. A new ally."
The shadows shifted.
From them emerged a figure—slender, tall, wrapped in chains and inked with glowing tattoos. He wore no armor. His skin pulsed with runes that hissed quietly as he moved.
> "This is Siraleth," Velzaria said. "One of the last Voidcallers. Banished to the depths of the Blackrift for refusing to kneel."
Siraleth bowed with elegance unnatural for a creature born in chaos.
> "My leash was long," he said, his voice soft as silk and twice as sharp. "But now it's broken. Let me repay Heaven for every century of silence."
Aeron wasn't sure whether to trust him.
But the war didn't wait for comfort.
---
Days later…
The army of ash marched.
Hundreds of war beasts.
Thousands of demonborn.
Three banners: Ashblood red, Thorn-black, and Veil-white.
Velzaria rode a creature that once pulled stars from orbit—its body made of molten obsidian and chained lightning. She spoke not to her army, but to the sky.
> "We do not fight to rule," she called. "We fight because they called us monsters."
> "Now we answer."
Thunder cracked.
The land darkened.
The veil trembled.
---
But in Vaelinth, preparations had already begun.
Within the Grand Cathedral, the priests gathered around a single, glowing sigil—one that had not activated in four hundred years.
> "The veil is buckling," said one.
> "What of Seraphiel?" asked another.
A new voice answered.
> "He has failed."
From the upper balcony, descending in wings of mirrored light, came a figure few had seen and lived to tell of:
Aurexiel, the Voice of Judgment.
Heaven's final blade.
If Seraphiel was their Spear…
Aurexiel was their executioner.
He carried no weapon.
Because he was one.
> "Prepare the choir," he said, his voice layered with harmonics no mortal throat could create. "Summon the Gate. Lock the inner seal."
> "But the Queen—" one priest began.
> "The Queen will kneel," Aurexiel said, his eyes glowing brighter than the sun. "And the Shadow…"
He paused.
> "I remember him. I trained him."
They entered Vaelinth not through flame or blade—but through blood.
Beneath the chapel ruins east of the sunwall, hidden under a font of ever-burning light, Aeron whispered an incantation taught only to exiled celestials.
The light bent.
The air shivered.
And a hole in the veil opened.
> "There," Siraleth breathed. "The original threshold. They buried it under hymns and guilt."
Aeron stepped in first.
Xyreya followed like a silent wind.
And Siraleth—his runes humming with Voidfire—sealed the path behind them.
The descent was steep, like falling down the throat of a forgotten god. Steps carved from ivory. Walls etched with prayers. The deeper they went, the more the air resisted—pressing, like something beneath wanted to stay forgotten.
> "You feel it," Xyreya whispered.
> "Like it's watching," Aeron muttered. "Like… me."
At the base of the spiral, they emerged into a circular chamber of gold and shadow.
The Vault.
Massive gears locked the doors. Chains carved with celestial script pulsed with energy that tasted like divine agony. In the center: three thrones, cracked and lifeless.
But on the walls—
Murals.
Hundreds of them.
Painted in layers of holy oil and bone ash.
And in one, Aeron saw…
Himself.
But younger. Clothed in white. Eyes dim. Kneeling before a figure wrapped in golden flame—Aurexiel.
> "That's not a mural," Siraleth whispered.
> "It's a seal."
And then they felt it.
Something stirring.
The light in the chamber bent, twisted.
And a figure stepped forth—not from the shadows, but from the light itself.
> "So the boy returns."
Aurexiel.
He hadn't waited above.
He'd been here all along.
Guarding this place.
Waiting.
> "Do you remember this chamber, Kael?" he asked, stepping toward Aeron. "Do you remember your vows?"
> "I'm not him," Aeron growled. "Not anymore."
> "Then why did the Vault open for you?"
Auron tried to summon his blade.
It flickered.
Failed.
> "This is where they made you," Aurexiel said, his voice like blades scraping glass. "Where they carved out the heretic inside you. Where you begged for purpose."
Siraleth stepped forward, voice low.
> "We don't need to fight. We only need what's buried."
> "Then come take it."
In a blink, Aurexiel crossed the room—his arm not moving, but his presence doing the cutting. A whip of light slammed Siraleth back into the wall, cracking half his runes.
Xyreya threw knives—shadow-slick and curved—but they melted midair.
> "He's too strong here," she hissed. "This room—this chamber—feeds him."
Aeron stepped forward, eyes burning.
> "Then we change the rules."
He drew his blade again—not with strength, but with memory.
The mural behind Aurexiel pulsed.
The version of Kael on the wall began to move.
Bleeding.
Screaming.
Burning away.
And as it did—
Aeron's power flared.
He dropped his sword.
Held up his hands.
And tore his seal open.
Not the divine one.
Not Velzaria's mark.
But the one locked inside his soul—put there long ago by the very creature before him.
> "You didn't make me," Aeron growled, shadow cloaking him in a storm of fury. "You erased me."
Aurexiel raised a hand to strike—
And Aeron caught it.
Light clashed with shadow.
And for the first time…
Aurexiel flinched.
> "Your mind is still mine," the angel hissed.
> "Then choke on it."
Aeron slammed his palm into the mural.
It shattered.
The chains around the vault snapped like dry vines.
From the earth below, a pulse of raw, ancient unbound magic surged through the room, nearly cracking the city above.
Velzaria felt it.
And smiled.
---
Aurexiel screamed—not in pain, but rage—as the light around him flickered.
> "You've doomed yourself."
Aeron stood in the center of the collapsing vault, eyes smoking.
> "No. I just remembered who I am."
And from the shadows, something rose.
A crown—not golden. Not divine.
Black. Fractured. Dripping with the ash of a fallen throne.
Aeron took it.
And the walls of Vaelinth began to fall.
---