Three days later, the expedition reached the edge of the Crystal Wastes.
A sea of broken white stretched endlessly, where once a desert had stood. Shards of translucent rock jutted from the ground like ancient bones, catching the sun and reflecting fractured rainbows in the frozen air. Magic thickened here—strange, ancient, and wild. Even the most seasoned mages in the retinue kept their hands near their spell-scrolls.
Althar stood at the front of the caravan, flanked by Seris and Rorek. Behind them, a dozen elite knights in obsidian armor, two Ilvaren scholars, and three wind-carved wagons of provisions. Above, a flock of winged familiars soared—enchanted hawks watching the land for threats.
Seris stepped closer. "This entire region didn't exist last year."
"I know," Althar replied. "It was a wasteland—now it hums with power."
Rorek kicked at the ground. "Not natural. This place feels like it was made overnight."
"Or remembered," Althar muttered.
They moved forward, deeper into the gleaming fields of crystal. With each step, the earth hummed louder, as though recognizing the one who approached. The resonance grew stronger when Althar passed.
The scholars took note of it immediately.
"Your Majesty," one murmured, "the land is responding to your aura. It's almost like… like it knows you."
He didn't answer.
He felt it too.
As they approached the coordinates given by Seris's brother, a structure emerged from the ground like a sleeping giant. The entrance was a jagged arch of obsidian embedded with veins of flickering blue flame. Symbols—almost identical to those on the crown beneath the capital—ran along the frame.
Seris walked forward, hand tracing the sigils. "I've seen these in the dream-realm. They call it the Temple of Embers."
Althar raised an eyebrow. "You dream of this place?"
"Not often," she said. "Only when I touch your magic."
The group grew tense.
Rorek stepped closer, eyes sharp. "Should we proceed?"
Althar didn't hesitate. "We came this far."
He stepped through the obsidian arch—and the world shifted.
The temple was not empty.
As Althar's foot touched the blackened floor, the air around them warped. Firelight sprang from the walls without flame, and a low hum began—like a thousand voices chanting in unison beneath the ground.
The hall opened into a great chamber, circular, with floating shards of crystal suspended in the air. At the center stood a pedestal. On it rested a second crown—nearly identical to the first.
But this one bled shadow.
Rorek drew his sword instinctively. "That's not a relic. That's a warning."
"No," Althar said, eyes locked on it. "It's a twin."
He stepped closer—and the moment his fingers brushed the crown, the room erupted in flame.
But not flame that burned.
Flame that showed.
Visions crashed into him—
A throne forged from dragonbone.A sky filled with screaming stars.A woman made of golden fire calling his name:"Kael—"
The name struck him like thunder. Not Althar. Not Ash.
Kael.
The name before the throne. The name before he forgot.
He fell to his knees, chest heaving. The crown pulsed beneath his hand.
Seris rushed forward, magic flaring. "What's happening?!"
"It's a memory," Althar gasped. "It's—me. Who I was before I died."
The scholars stared, stunned. "You were reborn… from one of the First Flame's champions."
Althar stood slowly, eyes brighter than ever before.
"No," he said. "Not a champion."
He turned to them, voice like steel.
"I was its last king."
The chamber trembled as if the temple itself acknowledged the truth.
And far across the world, in caverns where old gods slept, something opened its eyes for the first time in ten thousand years.
The flame had remembered its king.
And the world would never be the same again.