A week passed.
The Whispering Hills remained silent, the rift gone—but the memory lingered like smoke in Althar's mind. He had faced a shadow of himself, one that whispered of destinies forged in fire and blood. Yet what haunted him more wasn't the battle.
It was the feeling.
When he struck with that surge of raw power, it hadn't felt foreign. It had felt… familiar. As if some long-lost part of him had stirred.
He didn't like that.
He didn't like how much he did feel.
Emotions had always been like whispers to him—distant, muted. But now they screamed. Anger. Dread. Curiosity. Even… longing.
And at the center of that storm stood one name: Ariya.
That evening, Althar ordered his horse prepared without guards, without ceremony. Rorek protested, of course.
"She's a healer in a village. If you want her summoned, I can send someone—"
"No," Althar interrupted. "I'll go myself."
"You're the king."
"I'm becoming something more than that," he said. "But if I lose what I am now, there's no point in becoming anything else."
Rorek stared at him a long time, then gave a small nod. "Then take this," he said, handing him a silver ring. "Enchanted. Cloaks your presence. You won't be recognized by those without magical sight."
Althar slipped it on and left without another word.
The village of Marenbrook lay quiet beneath the moonlight, nestled among hills and starlit trees. It was the same place where, weeks ago, Ariya had saved his life with no idea who he truly was.
She had called him Ash then.
Not Your Majesty.
Not King.
Just Ash.
He dismounted quietly and approached the small house with the herb garden out front. A light glowed from inside.
He raised his hand to knock—then paused.
Through the window, he saw her. Hair tied back, sleeves rolled, bent over a child whose fevered breath rattled with each inhale. Her magic was gentle, almost invisible, as she placed her hand over the boy's chest. A soft glow passed from her fingers into the child's body. Slowly, the tension eased.
She whispered something—words he couldn't hear—but her voice was calm, like a balm to the world.
When the child finally slept, she exhaled, wiping sweat from her brow.
Only then did Althar knock.
She opened the door, surprised, eyes widening as she saw him. "Ash?"
He nodded.
She blinked. "You're… you're back. I thought—" Her voice faltered. "I thought you left for good."
"I did," he said. "But I came back."
Ariya stepped aside without needing to ask why. He entered, ducking slightly under the low beam. The scent of herbs and warmth wrapped around him like an old memory.
"Why are you really here?" she asked quietly.
"I've faced monsters," he said. "Fought shadows. Looked into the eyes of a version of myself I never want to become."
He turned to face her fully.
"But nothing shook me like you."
Her breath caught. "Me?"
"You were the first person to treat me like I wasn't a weapon. You saw something in me no one else did. You reminded me what it meant to feel."
She hesitated. "And now?"
"Now… I don't know who I'm becoming. But I know I need something to hold onto while I change."
Ariya looked away. "You're a king. I'm just a healer."
"You're more," he said. "You're proof that there's still something human in me."
The silence stretched between them like a thread.
Then, softly, she stepped forward. "You don't need to be anything but yourself when you're here."
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time in what felt like a thousand years, he allowed himself a moment of peace.
Outside, the stars gleamed.
And far away, beneath the mountain where the crown slept, the flames pulsed once more—sensing his heart, now no longer silent.
The king was changing.
And the world would not be ready for what came next.