The fire started in the East Wing.
At first, it was smoke—whispers curling beneath doors, seeping through old stones like secrets returned to life. Then came the screaming. By the time the alarm bells rang, the flames had already swallowed three towers.
Kaelen stood on the battlements, watching the inferno rise against the moonlit sky. His cloak snapped in the wind, embers dancing like dying stars around him. He didn't flinch.
"They're sending a message," he said.
Elaine appeared at his side, out of breath, her eyes wide with dread. "Who would burn the royal wing?"
"Someone who doesn't fear the crown," Kaelen replied. "Or someone who remembers it."
She glanced at him. "You're not surprised."
"No."
"Did you know this was coming?"
"I saw it," Kaelen said quietly. "In a dream. Or a memory. I can't tell the difference anymore."
Elaine gripped his arm. "Kaelen, if this is you—"
"It's not," he said. "But it's because of me."
Below, the chaos unfolded like a play. Soldiers shouted. Servants fled. Nobles barked orders no one obeyed. And from the heart of the flames, a symbol began to glow.
Carved into the stone. Ancient. Circular. A ring of thorns around an open eye.
Elaine gasped. "That's from the old seals. The ones outlawed after the Bloodline Purge."
Kaelen said nothing. He didn't need to. He had seen that mark before—on the scroll buried in the ribcage of the forgotten prince. On the altar in the temple. On the skin of the boy who called himself his reflection.
Hours later, smoke still clung to the palace like regret. The fires had been contained, but not extinguished.
Kaelen returned to the ruins alone. He moved through ash and shadow, stepping over blackened beams and melted chandeliers. The sigil still glowed faintly in the cracked floor, pulsing like a heartbeat.
He knelt before it.
"What do you want from me?" he whispered.
The air grew cold.
A voice answered—not from above, but from inside.
"To choose."
Kaelen shut his eyes.
"I already have."
"No. You waver. You speak of revolution but cling to memory. You cannot lead both the living and the dead."
"I'm not trying to."
"Then why did you wake us?"
A sound echoed through the ruins—stone grinding, deep beneath the palace.
Kaelen stood. He knew that sound.
The throne was stirring.
In the council hall, the nobles shouted over each other. Accusations flew like knives—spies, rebels, blood sorcery, heresy. King Orric sat at the head of the table, silent, his eyes fixed on nothing.
Kaelen entered without announcement.
The voices fell.
"I know who did this," he said.
All eyes turned.
Kaelen stepped to the center. "It wasn't a rival kingdom. Not a rogue house. It was us."
Whispers erupted.
King Orric's voice cut through them. "Explain."
Kaelen met his father's gaze. "Our past is no longer buried. Someone is unearthing it. Piece by piece. Flame by flame."
A silence settled.
One of the dukes stood. "And who, boy, is this mysterious 'someone'?"
Kaelen looked him in the eye. "The heir you erased."
Gasps.
The duke laughed. "The seventh prince is dead."
"Is he?" Kaelen asked. "Then why does the throne stir when he walks?"
No one spoke.
Kaelen turned. "The blood remembers. The Throne chooses. And now—"
The ground trembled.
Stone cracked beneath their feet.
From the west tower, a bell rang—not in alarm, but in summoning.
The Throne was open.
Kaelen ran.
Down spiraling corridors. Past halls lined with old portraits, their eyes following him like watchers in a dream. At the end of the royal wing, the black doors of the Throne Hall stood ajar.
Smoke leaked from within.
He stepped inside.
The room was empty. Silent.
The throne stood on its dais of bone and obsidian, twisted and cruel. At its base, the floor had split open. Darkness yawned below—deep, ancient.
And from within, something rose.
Not a figure. Not yet. Just a presence. A pressure.
The smell of old magic.
Kaelen stepped back.
"Don't run," said a voice.
Alric stood in the shadows, sword in hand. His golden armor was scorched, his face pale with fury.
"You did this," he said.
Kaelen didn't deny it.
"I warned them," Alric hissed. "I told them you were dangerous."
"I am," Kaelen said. "But not to the crown."
"Then to what?"
Kaelen looked at the throne.
"To what's beneath it."
A rumble shook the chamber.
Alric raised his blade.
But the throne answered first.
A scream tore through the room—metal and fire and memory made sound. The shadows coalesced. A hand—skeletal, burning with runes—reached from the pit.
Alric faltered.
Kaelen didn't move.
He whispered a word only the throne could hear.
"Brother."
The hand paused.
Then, slowly, it began to rise.