The journey back from the Bleeding Marshes was quiet.
Too quiet.
Even the ever-watchful Rorek didn't speak, his gaze distant as their ship glided over moonlit water. The knights stood like statues, their armor reflecting the pale glow of the Death Crown sealed in Althar's satchel. Seris kept muttering incantations of warding. Ariya, who usually stayed close to Althar, sat apart, staring into the mists with unreadable eyes.
Althar felt it all.
Not through emotion—he still struggled with those—but through sensation. An ache, a pressure in the air, like the world was watching. Judging.
When they arrived back at the capital, the palace seemed… colder. Not in temperature, but in spirit. Servants bowed lower. Nobles spoke in hushed tones. Rumors moved faster than truth, and fear, faster still.
The king had returned from the Marshes.With a crown of the dead.
That night, in the sanctum beneath the throne, Althar placed the third crown in its case beside the other two. Three glowing pedestals. Four still empty.
Seris stood behind him, arms crossed.
"You're changing."
Althar didn't turn. "You mean I'm remembering."
"No." Her voice dropped. "I mean changing. You used to react. Show flickers of confusion, of interest, even amusement. But since the Death Crown…"
He looked back at her, eyes shadowed with something colder than usual.
"I don't have the luxury of fear or hesitation. Not anymore."
Seris didn't back down. "If you lose your humanity trying to save it, what exactly do we get in return?"
He stared at her for a long moment.
Then left the chamber without a word.
Later that evening, Ariya found him in the garden. The one she'd planted after their first battle together. It was filled with moonflowers now—white blooms that only opened under starlight.
"You didn't even look at the flowers," she said, sitting beside him on the stone bench.
"I saw them," Althar replied.
"But didn't feel anything?"
He said nothing.
Ariya looked at him, long and hard. "What did Death show you?"
Althar closed his eyes. "A choice I made… a long time ago. One that cost me everything. A battlefield. Thousands of lives lost in a single moment. All because I refused to let a god win."
"Was it worth it?" she asked.
His jaw tensed. "I don't know."
Silence fell between them.
Then Ariya reached out, slowly, and rested her hand over his.
He looked at her—not the way a man looks at a woman, not yet—but as someone trying to remember why touch mattered.
"You haven't lost everything," she whispered.
"I don't know how to hold on," he admitted.
"Then let me hold on for both of us," she said.
He didn't pull away.
The next morning, the sky over the capital cracked open.
A portal tore through the clouds—swirling black and gold, large enough to cast a shadow over the entire palace. Horns blared. Mages ran. Soldiers scrambled to their stations.
Althar stood on the balcony, watching it unfold.
From the heart of the portal, a figure descended. Not a beast. Not a demon.
A man.
Tall, regal, cloaked in red-and-white, with eyes like molten glass. Around his neck hung a pendant bearing the sigil of the Sun Court—an empire that had fallen centuries ago.
Seris appeared beside Althar. "He's not alive."
"No," Althar said, "but he's not dead either."
"An echo?" she asked.
"No. A messenger."
The figure landed gently on the palace steps. Around him, everything stopped—time itself stilled.
Then his voice rang out like thunder through crystal:
"Kael of the Flame, bearer of three crowns.You walk a path forbidden by the Circle.You disturb what was sealed.For this, the Watchers demand parley.Come to the Silent Spire.Or they will come to you."
The figure dissolved into golden dust.
Time resumed.
Althar turned, already issuing orders.
"We're leaving tonight."
Rorek frowned. "You're not actually going to that place, are you?"
"Yes," Althar said.
"Why?" Ariya asked.
He looked up at the fading glow in the sky.
"Because the Watchers remember what I did last time."