Two days later, Althar stood atop the watchtower of his capital, the wind tugging at his cloak. His eyes swept the horizon—clouds brewing like black ink above the distant mountains. The peace he'd briefly held in Ariya's presence felt like a memory now. The mark on his chest had begun to throb again.
Something was coming.
And it would not wait for him to be ready.
Rorek ascended the stairs behind him, a scroll in hand. "We've received word from three border provinces. Reports of strange figures—cloaked in bone and shadow—passing through villages. People go missing. Entire caravans vanish. No witnesses. No survivors."
Althar took the scroll but didn't read it. "It's starting."
"You think it's the same creatures from the rift?"
"No," Althar said. "These are scouts. Harbingers. They're not just looking for something. They're summoning it."
Rorek hesitated, then added, "There's more. The southern front... we've lost contact with Lord Varin."
That made Althar turn.
Varin was no fool. A war-hardened noble whose domain had held firm even during the last demon incursion.
"They're testing us," Althar muttered. "Seeing where the cracks are."
"Then we strike back," Rorek said.
"Not yet," Althar replied. "We don't know enough."
The sound of armored boots echoed from below. A moment later, Seris emerged from the stairwell. "You might want to hear this," she said, holding a second scroll. "This came with Ilvaren's seal. It's from my brother."
Althar took it. As his eyes skimmed the contents, his expression darkened.
"They've found ruins near the Crystal Wastes. A temple… with symbols matching the ones on the crown buried under this city. The same language. The same black flame."
Seris crossed her arms. "He wants a joint expedition. Says the ruins are reacting to something. Maybe to you."
Althar nodded slowly. "Then we'll go."
Rorek frowned. "You're leaving again?"
"This world doesn't give us time to sit and prepare," Althar said. "If we wait, it will come to us on its terms."
He turned toward the gathered clouds, the winds shifting cold around them.
"We move within the week. Assemble the elite guard, prepare magical transport, and tell the court I'll be away indefinitely."
Seris raised a brow. "Leaving your throne again so soon? That won't sit well with your nobles."
Althar glanced at her, the fire in his gaze steady. "Then they can sit with their discomfort. Thrones are made for war—and mine won't be warm until the world is safe."
That night, he stood once more before the obsidian crown locked beneath the palace.
It whispered to him.
Not in words.
But in memories.
He saw flashes of a battlefield under two moons. A broken sword. A dying god whispering into his ear. And a promise made in another life: "If I fall, you must remember. You must finish what I could not."
Althar clenched his fists.
He didn't understand the full truth yet. But he would.
The storm was gathering.
And when it came, the king reborn would meet it—not as a man clinging to his throne—but as a force no shadow could silence.