The wind was quiet when Althar stepped back into the world.
No portals opened. No thunder cracked. The Shattered Realm simply vanished behind him like a dream never meant to be remembered. But the weight in his chest remained—the final crown now part of him.
All seven.
He should have felt invincible.
Instead, he felt hollow.
Seris approached him first. "The Seventh is yours now. That makes you—"
Althar cut her off. "It makes me a target."
Ariya, silent at his side, nodded grimly. "You felt it too?"
He had.
The moment the Crown of Echoes merged with him, something shifted in the world's magic. Like a pressure valve releasing. Or a thousand hidden eyes opening at once. A ripple had been sent through every leyline, every beast, every sorcerer in hiding.
The world now knew that he held them all.
And those who had long coveted that power… would not kneel.
They would march.
By the time they returned to the surface, Rorek was already sharpening his axe. The desert was gone—the sands swallowed by a churning storm of magic that had replaced the Shattered Realm's tear in the earth.
"What now?" the warrior asked, his voice low.
Althar stared out across the endless sky.
"They're coming."
Far to the north, past frostbitten steppes and glacial rivers, the Witch-Empress of Alvain opened her eyes for the first time in a century. Her lips curled in amusement as ancient runes lit up across her frozen citadel.
"So the boy has finally gathered the crowns…" she whispered. "Good. I was growing bored."
In the drowned ruins beneath the Western Sea, something stirred—the Leviathan Prince, bound in salt and silence, now thrashing against coral-forged chains. His voice echoed through the tides.
"Release me. The King rises."
And in the skies above the Obsidian Mountains, the Dragon Council—long scattered and sleeping—awoke to the cry of power. Great wings darkened the clouds. Flames kindled in a thousand forgotten hearts.
Althar walked in silence across the jagged rocks at the canyon's edge. The weight of the crowns buzzed under his skin. The Seventh Crown—unlike the others—had not vanished into him completely.
It hovered.
Visible above his head.
A shimmering halo of fragmented light and sound.
It was both crown and warning.
Ariya followed him. "You can still turn back."
He turned to her.
And for the first time, she saw it.
Emotion.
Not in his eyes, but in the way he breathed. In the way his shoulders no longer bore the weight like stone.
"I can't," he said quietly. "If I run, the world burns. If I stand, it might survive."
Ariya stepped closer, brushing her fingers against his. "Then let's stand."
They made camp that night in a ruined watchtower long buried in sand. Seris had uncovered a scrying crystal—an ancient arcane tool for observing world magic.
She showed him what the crystal now reflected:
War banners rising.
Armies of monsters, kings, and fallen gods assembling.
The continent splitting into factions—those who feared the crowned king… and those who wanted the crowns for themselves.
And among them…
A single banner bearing Althar's symbol.
A silver flame crossed with a shattered sword.
Raised by rebels, freed slaves, and orphans. Men and women who remembered the stories—not of the ruthless king—but of the man who had changed after death.
The man who felt.
"We're not just fighting monsters now," Seris said. "We're fighting belief. The world has already picked sides."
Rorek grunted. "Then we'll carve our side into the stones."
Althar looked toward the horizon.
"No," he said. "We'll build it."
The Crownless War had begun.
But for the first time since his return to life…
Althar no longer fought for power.
He fought for something far more dangerous.
Hope.