The halls of Dreadhold stank of blood and ash.
Shattered stone, broken blades, and the quiet groans of the wounded lingered long after the battle between the Thorns had ended. No victor had emerged—only bitterness, bruises, and the knowledge that something had fractured in their unity. Kael hadn't left his chamber since. He hadn't even spoken since the walls shook from their fury.
In the war room, the remaining Thorns gathered in uneasy silence. Aira nursed a wound across her temple, casting sharp glances at Thorne, whose gauntlet was still cracked from where he had punched through a pillar to stop himself from striking her again. The twin wolves, Luna and Eclipse, sat perched like shadows in the corners, eyes sharp, unreadable. Solen stood alone, leaning heavily on his staff, his normally gleaming armor dulled by soot.
"We tore each other apart," Valdran said finally, his voice like gravel. "And for what? Pride? Fear?"
"No," Aira answered coldly. "For him. Because we don't know how much longer he'll be Kael."
At that moment, the great doors creaked open.
Lyra stepped into the chamber, pale and composed, her expression unreadable. Her presence alone drew the room into silence. Luna and Eclipse flanked her like dusk and dawn, silent and steady.
"I heard what happened," she said.
Valdran stepped forward. "He needs you. We all do."
Lyra said nothing. She turned and left the room without another word.
Kael was kneeling in the ruins of his private garden when she found him—his hands covered in earth, planting seeds in silence. His once-majestic cloak was draped over his shoulders like a burden, his breath shallow, as if afraid to inhale too deeply and lose control.
"You missed quite the spectacle," Kael murmured without turning.
"I didn't come for theatrics," Lyra replied. "I came for you."
He looked at her then—eyes hollow, ringed with crimson. "Do you still see me, Lyra? Or just the thing I might become?"
She knelt beside him. "I see both. And I won't let either one be alone."
Kael closed his eyes, his voice barely audible. "They almost killed each other… because of me."
"No," Lyra whispered, resting a hand on his arm. "They did it because they love you. They're afraid of losing you."
That night, as the moons cast fractured light over Dreadhold, a single rider approached the gates.
She dismounted with the grace of royalty, her long silver coat flaring behind her, the insignia of Velharys sewn in gold on her shoulder. The guards did not stop her—she had been expected.
Seris Vale, commander of the Heroes of Velharys, walked into Dreadhold like one walks into a lion's den.
And Kael, seated upon his darkened throne, met her gaze with weary eyes.
"So," she said. "This is the king who breaks his kingdom to save it."
Kael stood. "And you must be the hero who comes to judge it."
The tension crackled like a storm waiting to break.
But before either could speak again, a scream echoed from deep within the keep.
They turned at once, rushing toward the noise.
A servant stumbled into the hallway, her eyes glazed, her arms twitching unnaturally. Glyphs—twisting, inky symbols—burned across her skin like a living language. The Eye's mark, inverted and pulsing, spiraled across her back.
Kael froze.
It wasn't just in him anymore.
The corruption was spreading.