The raven came at dusk.
Its wings sliced the twilight, black against gold, as it landed on Kaelen's windowsill with unnatural grace. Tied to its leg was a ribbon—not a message. A blood-red ribbon bearing the seal of the Royal Crypt.
Kaelen untied it in silence. No one used the seal anymore. Not since the War of the Bastards. Not since the seventh prince had vanished into ash.
His blood ran cold.
Someone knew.
Hours later, cloaked in a stablehand's garb, Kaelen passed through the servant gate beneath the eastern wall. The city stretched below, cobbled streets gleaming under torchlight. He followed the raven.
It led him beyond the river, through the dying orchards, and up the hill to the forgotten temple of Arathien—the god of lost things.
Kaelen had never believed in gods. But tonight, the shadows whispered truths too ancient for any scroll.
The raven perched atop the statue's crown, then vanished into the dark.
Kaelen stepped inside.
The temple was empty. Almost.
At the altar stood a boy. No older than sixteen. Skin like moonlight. Hair silver as frost. Eyes—Kaelen's eyes.
The boy turned.
"You're late."
Kaelen froze.
"Who are you?"
"You already know."
A silence stretched between them.
Finally, Kaelen stepped forward. "You're me."
The boy nodded. "The part they erased."
Kaelen's heart pounded. "You died."
"I was buried," the boy said, voice calm. "But not dead. Not really. The blood remembers."
A pulse of Throneblood magic shivered through the room, awakening the runes carved into the temple's stone.
Kaelen stared. "Why now?"
"Because the game has started," the boy whispered. "And you are not the only piece on the board."
Back in the palace, Kaelen sat alone in the tower chamber, the weight of the encounter settling like ash on his shoulders.
The Forgotten Heir.
A brother. A twin. A ghost.
The bloodlines were more tangled than anyone dared admit. King Orric had erased the boy from history—but the blood could not forget.
The throne chose through blood.
And now it had two claimants.
Days passed. Whispers rose.
A noble lord collapsed mid-audience, violet veins pulsing beneath his skin. A merchant's child was found humming an old royal hymn no one had taught her. In the western quarter, a masked figure left flowers on every doorstep marked by royal cullings.
Someone was stirring the pot.
Kaelen knew who.
And yet, the strange boy had vanished—no trace, no name.
But his presence lingered.
Elaine noticed.
"You're different," she said one night, brushing dust from a forgotten map.
Kaelen didn't deny it. "I found someone."
"A threat?"
"A warning."
Elaine frowned. "You're starting to sound like the king."
"I'm starting to understand the king," Kaelen said quietly.
That was worse.
On the morning of the Festival of Bloodlines, every noble house displayed its banners from the palace walls. House Avareth's black and gold lion stood proudly at the center.
Kaelen stood beside his father.
King Orric's hand rested heavy on his shoulder.
"You've changed," the king said.
Kaelen didn't respond.
"There's iron in your spine now. And something else. Old blood. Dangerous blood."
Kaelen turned. "Is that why you tried to have it bled out of me?"
The king smiled. "I tried to make you forget who you are. I failed."
Kaelen's fingers twitched, but he bowed. "You won't make that mistake again."
The king said nothing.
At midnight, Kaelen crept back into the temple.
This time, the boy waited atop the altar.
"I've seen what's coming," he said.
"So have I."
"No," the boy whispered. "You've seen shadows. I've seen the throne open."
Kaelen's breath caught.
"It feeds," the boy continued. "Not on power. On us."
"What do you want from me?" Kaelen asked.
The boy stepped forward.
"To remember."
Kaelen hesitated. "Remember what?"
The boy took his hand—and suddenly, the world changed.
He stood in a memory not his own.
The throne room was older. Covered in ivy. The king on the dais wore no crown—only a helm of bone.
Seven children knelt before him, each bleeding from a cut over the heart.
The king drank from a chalice.
One by one, the children fell.
Only the youngest remained.
Silver-haired. Violet-eyed.
The boy from the temple.
Kaelen.
The king raised the dagger.
"Throneblood must be renewed."
The child smiled.
And slit his own throat.
Kaelen gasped.
The temple's air returned, heavy with incense.
He staggered back. "You died."
"I chose to die," the boy said. "Because it was the only way to trap the throne's hunger. But something has awoken it again."
Kaelen's voice shook. "The masked woman…"
"She serves the throne. But not the king."
Kaelen's head spun. "Then who commands it?"
The boy stepped forward, placed a cold hand on Kaelen's chest.
"You do. Or you will."
When Kaelen returned to the palace, his eyes burned with new understanding.
The game was not between princes.
It was between legacies.
Blood. Memory. Power.
That night, the raven returned.
But this time, it spoke.
In a voice that was not a voice.
"Check."