The gates of Everfrost loomed like a glacier carved into the sky.
Frost-covered runes shimmered across the surface of the gates—old Elven tongue that even Eryk could not read.
Kalen felt them humming inside his blood.
Recognizing him.
> "Why are they staring?" Kalen asked.
Vaelirn, the armored Ice Elf, answered without looking.
> "Because the gate only sings for royalty."
> "And you... it sings for like a lover."
They passed through.
---
The City of Everfrost
Everfrost was not built—it was grown from living ice, guided by Elven hands and magic old as the moonlight.
Crystals suspended in the air reflected the aurora, bathing the streets in ghostly blue and silver.
Elves watched from high bridges, silent and pale, their expressions masks of elegance and caution.
The city was not dead.
It was waiting.
Serinya, walking beside Kalen, finally spoke:
> "The city remembers the Red Throne."
> "It remembers him."
> "You are not him, not yet... but you carry his echoes."
Kalen's voice was quiet:
> "Was he real?"
Serinya looked down at him, something like sadness in her cold eyes.
> "Oh yes. Too real."
> "And when he ruled, even time hesitated."
---
An Audience Awaits
At the center of Everfrost stood the Mirror Hall, a sanctum of political power and ancient secrets. The Elves had not yet decided if Kalen was guest or threat.
But the Blood beneath the Ice had already chosen.
And far below the city—in the frozen catacombs where the First King still slumbered—a crack spread across a crystal coffin.
Not from time.
But from recognition.
---
Everfrost – The Glass Gardens
Kalen wandered, his father speaking with Vaelirn about protocols and audience customs. The Glass Gardens were filled with white-barked trees and glowing blue flowers suspended in frozen air.
It was quiet here.
Too quiet for most children.
But Kalen didn't mind silence.
He touched a petal — it melted instantly beneath his fingers.
The plant pulsed red briefly… before freezing solid again.
> "You broke it," a voice said.
Kalen turned.
A girl stood behind him. Ice Elven, though her cheeks were rosy with youth. She had short silver hair cut bluntly, and deep sapphire eyes that didn't blink much.
> "It melted because your blood burns," she said, walking closer. "But that flower only opens for sorrow. Not heat."
Kalen stared at her.
> "What's your name?"
Before she could answer, a voice cut the air like ice splitting stone.
> "Alyen'tra."
The girl flinched.
A tall, graceful elven woman glided across the path, her long hair braided in silver coils, her face as flawless as carved glass. She pulled the girl behind her.
> "You will not speak to him."
> "Why?" the girl asked softly.
> "Because the river does not ask the fire what it dreams."
She turned to Kalen, her voice regal, unreadable.
> "You walk our halls as guest. Not kin. Remember that."
Kalen didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
---
The Elven Council – Mirror Hall
The Council of Everfrost sat in a circle of twelve, each upon a seat of living crystal, connected to the city's memory roots. Their robes shimmered with arcane threads, embroidered with constellations and runes.
Eryk stood tall, one arm across his chest. Kalen stood beside him, still and watchful.
The High Speaker, an ageless elf with hollow irises and a voice like snow cracking, spoke:
> "You seek shelter. We offer it."
> "But shelter given to a storm does not stop the wind."
Vaelirn stepped forward.
> "The boy healed his father using blood alone. No spell. No scroll. The wound obeyed him."
A soft murmur rippled through the hall.
Serinya added, her voice calm:
> "He carries the Red Pulse."
A crystal flared red, faintly — responding to his presence.
The High Speaker leaned forward.
> "Do you know who you are, child?"
Kalen met his eyes.
> "No."
> "Good," the elf said. "When the Red King knew who he was, the world wept."
---
The council did not banish them.
But they did not welcome them either.
They were watched.
They were feared.
And deep beneath the city, the frost whispered prophecies no one dared repeat aloud.
---
Crimson Veil Cathedral
Far away, beyond mountains and ocean, in the land of the Southern Continent, a great cathedral stood.
Black stone. Blood-red glass.
A thousand robed figures moved in ritual silence.
In one of the lesser sanctums, Priest Lureon knelt before the Veil — a curtain of flesh and shadow that pulsed with divine madness.
He was not important.
Not yet.
But tonight, the Veil breathed.
And a drop of blood slid down its surface, forming a single word in a forgotten tongue.
Lureon stared.
He understood.
> "He walks," he whispered.
"He walks the path again."
Behind him, the other priests began to wail in reverence.
And above them, in the hidden chambers, the Cardinals stirred.
The Crimson Veil had spoken for the first time in nine years.