The words echoed longer than they should have.
"Replace them."
Kaelen hadn't meant to say it aloud. But once it was out, it clung to the air like smoke after a fire. Elira didn't speak right away. Her expression was unreadable in the flickering torchlight.
Finally, she asked, "Why would you think that?"
Kaelen stared at the blade resting beside him, still pulsing faintly from the fight. "Because when I touched that envoy's mind… I felt something." He hesitated. "They don't just want to kill me. They want to kneel to me."
Elira's brow furrowed. "That makes no sense."
"It does," he said quietly. "If I was created with part of their power—if the bloodline pact goes deeper than just inheritance—then maybe I'm not their enemy. Maybe I'm their… successor."
Elira stood. "If that's true, there has to be a record. A memory. Something the Valebornes buried."
Kaelen looked up.
"The Vault."
She nodded. "It's time."
Beneath the cold stone foundations of Kaelthorn lay a place even the most loyal stewards feared: the Vault of Silence.
Carved long before the throne room above it, the Vault was where truth had been sealed away—dangerous truth. Kaelen had only heard whispers of it growing up, rumors of rituals, of blood rites that even the high houses refused to acknowledge.
They reached the last door. No lock. Just stone carved with the old Valeborne crest—a wolf's head, split down the middle by a sword. As Kaelen reached for it, his fingers glowed faint red.
The door opened on its own.
Inside, the chamber throbbed with stillness. Not emptiness—no. It felt full. Watched. In the center sat a pedestal holding an object that made Kaelen's breath catch:
A silver mask, etched in black runes.
It shimmered, as if it recognized him.
Kaelen stepped forward slowly, the hum of his sword growing louder with every step. He didn't need to ask what it was.
This was his inheritance.
He lifted the mask. Shadows peeled off it like skin. His mind split open the moment it touched his face.
—A younger version of his mother, kneeling before a being with six golden eyes, whispering,"Let my son live. Take me instead."—His father, cutting runes into Kaelen's crib.—A voice, low and ancient:"The child will carry the burden. He will walk between flame and void."
Kaelen tore the mask away, falling to his knees, gasping.
Elira rushed to him, but froze when she saw his eyes—no longer just red, but shadow-ringed with streaks of gold.
He looked at her, breath trembling.
"They named me something else in the vision."
"What was it?"
Kaelen stared into the darkness behind the vault.
"Ravaryn."
The torchlight dimmed.
"That's what they called the heir who would unite the Courts."
Elira's voice was barely a whisper. "But the Courts were never meant to be united."
Kaelen stood slowly, blade now weightless in his hand, the mask pulsing with quiet power beside him.