The Silent Spire stood alone, far to the north, where the stars hung lower and the winds spoke in whispers.
No maps marked it. No caravans passed near. It was a place forgotten by time and feared by even the oldest mages—one of the last sanctuaries of the Watchers, beings neither gods nor men, born from the first echoes of magic.
And Althar was walking straight into it.
Their journey took four days by airship and three more by rune-bound horses through frost-covered forests. The land itself resisted them. Trees leaned in. The sun vanished behind a sky permanently caught in twilight. Wolves watched them from the edges of vision, never attacking, but never leaving.
They arrived at dusk on the eighth day.
The spire was exactly as described: tall, impossibly narrow, forged from black glass that reflected no light. No door adorned its surface. No windows broke its length. It simply stood.
Waiting.
"This is a bad idea," Rorek muttered, adjusting the grip on his sword.
"They already know we're here," Seris said, stepping forward.
Ariya's eyes narrowed as she studied the tower. "It's listening."
Althar said nothing. He placed a hand on the cold surface of the spire.
A moment later, it shimmered, and a seam split down the center. The tower opened, revealing a narrow stairway winding upward into blackness.
"I go alone," Althar said.
"Like hell," Rorek growled.
Althar turned. "If the Watchers wanted to kill me, they wouldn't send an invitation."
Ariya stepped forward. "And if they try to change you?"
He paused.
Then answered truthfully.
"They already have."
Inside the Silent Spire, there was no light, yet Althar could see. Not with his eyes—but with something deeper, ancient. The air was thick with magic older than memory.
As he ascended, whispers greeted him.
"Kael the Forsaken."
"Breaker of Thrones."
"Bearer of Crowns."
With every step, fragments of forgotten memories stirred. Crowns of ice. Thrones of ash. Faces he had killed and loved and mourned. It was all returning.
At the summit, a circular chamber awaited—empty, save for seven chairs carved from different materials: bone, flame, crystal, void, storm, time, and silence.
Five were occupied.
The Watchers.
They were tall, cloaked in ever-shifting forms—human and not, their faces blurred by veils of concept. One shimmered like a dying sun. Another like cracked glass. One whispered constantly without sound. They were less individuals and more… forces.
"You should not exist," said the one seated on the chair of silence.
"Yet here I am," Althar replied, calm.
"You have claimed three crowns," spoke the flame-shaped one. "Do you intend to collect the rest?"
"Yes."
A pause.
Then the Watcher of Time leaned forward. "Do you remember why you sealed them?"
Althar nodded. "Because together, they awaken Hollow Sovereignty. The True Throne."
The Watchers rippled.
"The world cannot survive it a second time."
"It won't have to," Althar said. "Because I won't sit on that throne. I'll destroy it."
Murmurs echoed like shifting winds.
"You say that now," said the Storm Watcher. "But with each crown, you change. What makes you believe you'll remain yourself?"
Althar stepped forward. "Because this time, I'm not alone."
Behind his words echoed Ariya's presence, Rorek's loyalty, Seris' sharp eyes.
"I was once a god. I fell because I ruled without care. Now I walk with mortals who remind me why I must never become that again."
The Silent Watcher finally spoke, voice cutting through all sound.
"Then prove it.Find the fourth crown.But beware…One of your own seeks it as well."
The Watchers rose in unison.
"Go now, King of Fire. The next crown lies beneath the Sea of Mirrors."
The spire vanished.
Althar stood outside, the rest of the party rushing to meet him.
"What happened?" Seris asked.
"They warned me," he said. "The next crown lies beneath the sea. But we're not the only ones looking."
Ariya frowned. "Who else would want it?"
Althar looked to the south, a cold certainty forming in his gut.
"Someone I once trusted."
Far away, across the Silver Sands, a ship made of bone and starlight descended into the sea.
At its helm stood a woman with silver eyes and a crown of thorned magic. Her cloak bore the symbol of the Moonbreaker Order—an extinct sect once loyal to Kael himself.
She smiled.
"Soon, my king," she whispered. "I'll return what you abandoned… and wear what you could not."