The mountains of Ghar-Vaal stretched like the jagged teeth of a sleeping giant—unforgiving, treacherous, and steeped in old magic. Althar and his companions stood at the base of a narrow cliff path, staring up into the swirling mists above.
"It's moving again," Seris said, her hand glowing as she hovered over the living map. "Whoever holds the fifth crown… they're not hiding. They're wandering."
"Or running," Rorek grunted, adjusting the weight of his axe on his back. "Cowards don't usually carry ancient crowns."
Ariya frowned. "Unless they're trying to lose it."
Althar remained quiet.
The fifth crown had eluded them for nearly a week. Each time they closed in, it shifted course—sometimes doubling back, sometimes vanishing entirely. The mountains themselves were half-alive with enchantments and crumbling ruins of the Old Kingdoms. But this wasn't just the terrain resisting them.
It was the bearer.
And whoever they were, they knew what they carried.
Althar's jaw tightened. "We go up. No more delays."
The higher they climbed, the more the world bent.
Paths led to nowhere. Voices whispered from cracks in the stone. At one point, they crossed the same dead tree three times—even though they hadn't turned back.
"Spatial distortion," Seris muttered. "The crown's protecting itself. It's not just hiding the bearer—it's warping the mountain around them."
"So how do we find them?" Ariya asked.
Althar closed his eyes.
He didn't use sight.
He felt.
The pulse of the crown was faint, but it was there—calling to him like a thread pulled through time. Not demanding, not whispering illusions like the Crown of Illusion.
This one felt… lonely.
"Northwest," he said, pointing toward an unmarked path.
They followed.
By nightfall, they reached a plateau hidden behind a waterfall of mist.
There, in the center, sat a fire.
And beside it, a figure cloaked in travel-worn robes, resting on a stone.
The crown sat beside them, glowing with faint amber light. It was carved from roots and bone, a primal thing that pulsed with nature's will.
The Crown of Spirits.
The figure didn't look up.
"You finally caught up," they said.
A woman. Young, but with eyes too old for her face. Her hair was the color of dried leaves, and her skin was pale from sunless travel.
Althar stepped forward.
"You have something that doesn't belong to you."
She chuckled, but it was hollow. "That's rich—coming from the man who wore death like armor."
"I'm not that man anymore."
She stood.
And when her eyes met his, he saw something he hadn't expected.
Not madness.
Not hunger for power.
But grief.
"I didn't take this crown," she said. "It came to me."
Seris narrowed her eyes. "Crowns don't just pick wanderers."
"I was a seer once," the woman replied. "Before the Cataclysm took my temple. I dreamed of seven thrones and the man who would rise to claim them. The same man who had once shattered the stars. The same man who…" she glanced at Althar. "Walks now."
Rorek stepped forward. "You dreamt of him?"
"More than dreamt," she said softly. "I saw him. Again and again. In every future that ends in fire… he wears all seven."
Ariya stiffened.
The woman continued. "So when this crown appeared in the ashes of my people, I ran. Not because I wanted it—but because I didn't want him to have it."
Althar's voice was quiet. "You think I'll become the monster they say I was."
She didn't answer immediately.
Then: "I think you're already halfway there."
Silence followed.
Then Althar did something none of them expected.
He sat down by the fire.
"You may be right," he said. "But that future only comes true if I face it alone."
The woman watched him warily.
"I won't take the crown from you by force," he said. "Not if you still believe you can bear it."
She stared at him. The fire crackled between them.
Then, slowly, she picked up the crown.
It didn't fight her. But it didn't glow, either.
"It doesn't speak to me anymore," she whispered. "Not since you arrived."
She held it out.
"I don't trust you, King of Flame. But I trust what the crown is telling me."
Althar accepted the Crown of Spirits. The moment it touched his hand, a rush of memories—not his own—flowed through him.
Children laughing in ruined temples.
Spirits guarding the last seeds of dying forests.
Voices—millions—crying to be remembered.
He fell to one knee, gasping.
Ariya ran to his side, but he held up a hand. "I'm fine."
The crown had shown him the cost of every war he'd forgotten.
And it was heavy.
Later, as the stars emerged overhead, the woman prepared to leave.
"What's your name?" Ariya asked.
The woman paused, then smiled faintly. "Ashen. Just Ashen."
She looked back at Althar one last time.
"I hope you prove me wrong."
Then she vanished into the mist.
That night, as the others slept, Althar stood alone with the crown in his lap.
Five now.
Each heavier than the last.
And somewhere, in the Shattered Realm and the Endless Dunes, the last two waited.
But now he knew something he hadn't before.
He wasn't alone in fearing what he could become.
And that fear?
It kept him human.
Far away, the man in silver watched as the fifth crown was claimed.
He turned to the chained dragons, each bound by runes of forgotten gods.
"Five," he said. "Soon… six. Then the world will bow."
A smile crept across his face.
"And when the seventh crown rests on his head… I'll take them all."