The return from the Sea of Mirrors was silent.
Althar's hand never left the satchel containing the Crown of Illusion. Even sealed, its whispers clawed at the edge of his mind, trying to show him versions of himself—kinder, crueler, freer. Lives unlived.
But he held on.
Not because he was strong.
But because he now knew what he didn't want to become again.
Their ship cut through the clouds above the western peaks, heading toward the capital. The sky was still, too still. Not even birds moved. Not a single wind stirred the sails.
Seris frowned. "This isn't natural."
"I feel it too," Ariya murmured. "Like the world is holding its breath."
Then the air cracked.
A wave of black mist burst from the east, covering the horizon like an avalanche. Lightning flickered within, but not natural lightning—runes sparked in the sky, ancient glyphs once used to bind gods.
"Brace for impact!" Rorek bellowed.
The mist struck the ship like a wall. Everything went dark.
Althar opened his eyes.
He was no longer on the ship.
He stood on a battlefield.
Alone.
The sky above him was red, burning with smoke and ash. Charred corpses littered the ground. Swords pierced the earth like metal trees. And in the distance, a throne of bone sat atop a mountain of bodies.
He knew this place.
He had made it.
The War of Final Flame.
The moment he broke the world.
"Do you see now?" a voice echoed.
The silver-eyed knight from the sea stepped forward, no longer wearing the sigil of the Moonbreaker Order—but a crown. The Crown of Illusion now rested on her head.
"This is what you were," she said. "And what you'll become again."
"I defeated you," Althar replied.
"You defeated one version of me," she said. "The crown remembers. It wants you to fall. And all it needs… is your permission."
The throne pulsed.
He felt its pull—familiar, almost comforting.
Althar stepped back. Closed his eyes. Let the battlefield fade.
And whispered, "Not this time."
He awoke on the ship.
Ariya was leaning over him, her hand on his chest, her voice trembling with power.
"You stopped breathing," she said.
Rorek grunted from the other side, nursing a cut on his head. "Whole damn ship fell into some kind of magic storm. We're lucky to be alive."
Seris helped Althar sit up. "That mist wasn't natural. It was summoned. Someone's trying to force you back into your old self."
"Someone with access to the crowns' memories," Althar muttered.
Ariya nodded. "They're not trying to kill you. They're trying to corrupt you."
The realization settled heavily.
If he failed… it wouldn't be because someone defeated him.
It would be because he became the very monster the world feared he would.
Back in the capital, the nobles gathered again.
They had grown restless.
The sky had changed. The air felt thinner. The barrier stones that protected the city flickered, dimming more each night. Rumors whispered that the king had awakened the power of the old gods—and that the world was reacting.
In the throne room, Althar stood before the court.
The nobles bowed. All but one.
Duke Maldris of Westcourt stepped forward, arms crossed, flanked by six battle-mages.
"With respect, Your Majesty," the Duke said, "we deserve answers. The skies fracture. Magic grows unstable. The people whisper of thrones returning. We are owed the truth."
Althar looked down at him. Calm. Unshaken.
"I am collecting the seven crowns to prevent the rise of the Hollow Sovereignty. A throne that ends the world if misused."
The court fell into silence.
Then panic.
"The what?" a noble gasped.
"That's madness!"
"You expect us to just… trust you?"
Rorek stepped forward, hand on his sword, but Althar raised a hand to stop him.
"Trust me?" he said. "No. I don't expect that."
He stepped down from the dais.
"I expect you to remember that when the world begins to burn, there is no one else strong enough to stop it."
His voice carried.
"If you doubt me, then kill me now. End it. And face what comes alone."
The room was silent.
No one moved.
No one dared.
Then Ariya stepped beside him, placing a hand on his arm. "He hasn't failed you yet."
Seris joined her. "And he won't."
Rorek cracked his knuckles. "But if you'd like to try, go ahead. I've been itching for a duel."
The nobles lowered their eyes.
Later that night, in the depths of the royal archives, Althar stood before a sealed chamber. It hadn't been opened in over five hundred years.
Seris muttered the incantation.
The doors opened.
Inside was a map. A living map.
It shifted with stars and magic, marking the locations of the remaining three crowns.
One pulsed in the sands of the Endless Dunes.
One moved constantly—across mountains, as if carried.
And one… lay in a place that should not exist.
The Shattered Realm.
Ariya looked at him. "Which one first?"
Althar touched the shifting crown on the map.
"If it's moving… someone's already carrying it."
He drew his blade.
"Then it's time I find out who."
Far away, the man in silver stood before a giant door bound in dragonbone and blood-runes.
Behind it, something vast breathed in the dark.
He smiled.
"The king approaches.And when he reaches the next crown…He'll find me waiting."