Chapter 1: Veilfire

  There was comfort in the fire, in the hiss of cooling metal and the steady rhythm of hammer on steel. Aeor understood that language better than most conversations. Harwyn’s Forge was a place of purpose, a world of heat and iron where the hum of creation never ceased. It wasn’t home, but it felt close enough.

  Cedric Harwyn glanced up from his work, sweat dampening his graying hair. His face, weathered and marked by years over the anvil, lit with brief approval.

  "Your strikes are better, kid," he said, nodding toward the half-forged spearhead glowing in the coals.

  "Thanks, Uncle," Aeor replied, offering a quick, earnest smile.

  Cedric stepped away from the bellowing heart of the forge, rubbing his hands on a soot-stained cloth as he made his way toward the open front. "You sticking around long? It's not every day the army sends a whole procession to a quiet place like Eldermoor."

  Aeor followed, cradling the haft of his spear. "I’m not sure what the briefing will entail, but if I had to guess, it could be about the monsters pulling away from the northern peaks."

  He paused near the window, eyes flicking to the horizon. Overcast skies stretched far, swollen with cold.

  It’ll snow again before dusk, he thought. The briefing should’ve ended by now. Wonder if Bran got anything useful out of the captains.

  The door creaked open, ushering in a bite of northern wind. Aeor turned just as a familiar figure stepped inside.

  Lyra entered wearing a thick winter coat bearing the insignia of the Calen Army. Her long auburn braid spilled over her shoulder, and a worn leather satchel hung by her side. Her bright yellow eyes flicked from Cedric to Aeor.

  "Oh! Hello," she said, eyes closing as a grin softened her expression. "Gods, it’s warm in here."

  Aeor chuckled. "Hello to you too, Lyra."

  "I was heading to the barracks. The briefing should be over by now," she said, pulling the door shut behind her. "You coming?"

  "Just need a minute to freshen up," Aeor said, already turning toward the back of the forge.

  While Cedric and Lyra exchanged a few words, Aeor kneeled beside the washbasin. He splashed the cold water across his face, wiping away soot and the forge’s heat. As the ripples calmed, his reflection stared back, older, sharper, with a quiet tension in his gaze. He tied the top half of his sweat-damp hair into a half-knot, leaving the rest to fall freely.

  He swapped out his blacksmith’s apron for a clean black tunic and white travel-worn trousers, slipping into a leather coat that bore the same army insignia as Lyra’s. Spear in hand, he stepped back into the forge’s front chamber.

  "Ready?" Lyra asked.

  Aeor nodded. "Let’s get going."

  Boots crunched over the gravel path as Aeor walked beside Lyra, the morning air laced with the scent of coal smoke and dew-damp earth. The forge’s warmth faded behind them, replaced by the gentle hum of Eldermoor waking. Its streets, lined with a mix of timber and stone buildings, bore the handcrafted charm of a town shaped by generations of artisans. Cobbled paths wound between market stalls and homesteads, where townsfolk greeted one another with nods, laughter, and the clatter of morning trade.

  "Did you hear the royal procession is stopping here tomorrow?" Lyra asked, glancing at him.

  "You mean Prince Daemon and Princess Eloria's expedition?" Aeor replied, raising an eyebrow.

  "Yeah. I think they're headed to the ancient ruins in the Deep North."

  Aeor blinked. "What? When was the royal expedition even announced? I didn’t even know they’d Awakened yet."

  Lyra shrugged, her breath fogging slightly in the cool air. "They're our age, give or take. The princess is nineteen winters, the prince a year younger. They shouldn’t be taking the rite for at least three more winters."

  "And who told you they were headed for the ruins?"

  "Me and Mirelle were out in the Crafters’ District last night. Ran into a soldier from one of the other squads. He mentioned it."

  Idle speculation, Aeor thought, but why wasn't the expedition made public?

  "Regardless," he said aloud, adjusting the strap across his shoulder, "do you know where Mirelle and Kaeric are?"

  "We agreed to meet near the barracks."

  They moved deeper into Eldermoor, exchanging greetings with familiar faces. Eventually, the town gave way to a sturdier section near the outskirts, where a squat stone structure stood, reinforced with dark timber and guarded by several soldiers bearing the crest of Calen.

  Aeor’s eyes scanned the courtyard until he spotted Kaeric and Mirelle standing near the far wall.

  Kaeric lounged with practiced ease, lean frame relaxed, his tousled blond hair catching the morning light. A bow rested across his back, and his hazel eyes gleamed with familiar mischief.

  "Well, well. Look who finally decided to join us. Enjoying your stroll?" Kaeric called, smirking.

  Aeor smirked back. "Not much else to enjoy in this town."

  Beside him, Mirelle stood poised, a calm presence in contrast to Kaeric’s levity. Her dark hair was neatly braided, and her deep blue eyes held the quiet weight of someone always watching, always thinking.

  "Greetings, you two," she said softly.

  "Hello," Aeor and Lyra replied in unison.

  "Is the briefing still going?" Lyra asked, her gaze shifting to the heavy doors.

  "Yeah," Mirelle answered. "They’ve been in there a while."

  Kaeric scoffed. "I’m tired of all this secrecy. First, they summon three squads to a sleepy town like this, and now they won’t even tell us why we’re here."

  "We’ll know soon enough, Kaeric," Mirelle replied. "Patience."

  As if on cue, the engraved wooden doors to the barracks creaked open. Five figures stepped out: three squad captains and the two captains of the Northern Battalion.

  Aeor spotted Bran at the rear of the group. Their squad leader was hard to miss: broad-shouldered and solid as a wall, with a neatly trimmed beard and a long scar running down his left cheek. His eyes, deep brown and ever-measuring, swept the courtyard until they landed on Mirelle’s wave.

  Giving a final nod to the captains, Bran strode over.

  "So," Lyra said, stepping forward, "do we finally get to know what’s going on?"

  "Yes," Bran replied. "But let’s take it inside. Sky looks like it’ll snow any minute."

  "Yes, Sergeant Bran," Mirelle said, mock saluting.

  The others followed suit, snapping off playful salutes of their own.

  A rare smile cracked across Bran’s face. "Fools," he muttered under his breath. "Let’s go."

  The barracks interior was warmer than the overcast courtyard, though the stone walls still clung to the chill of a northern air. The scent of oiled leather, sweat, and old timber lingered, a sharp contrast to the freshness of the outside world, but familiar all the same. Their boots echoed across the flagstone floor as they stepped into a broad chamber, its low-beamed ceiling sagging slightly under the weight of age. At the center stood a long, timeworn wooden table scarred by generations of use.

  Maps stretched across one wall, their corners curled, their ink faded from countless fingers and revisions. Banners draped in the corners bearing the sigil of Calen, their colors muted by dust. A single lantern swayed from the ceiling’s central beam, casting slow-turning shadows that made the room feel older, heavier.

  The five of them settled into their usual places around the table. All eyes turned to Bran.

  "Let me start from the top," Bran said, his voice steady. "Our squad, along with one other currently stationed in Eldermoor, has been assigned to assist the Royal Guard in escorting Prince Daemon and Princess Eloria to the ancient ruins."

  Lyra frowned. "But... why? The Royal Guard is elite. All of them are Awakened, right? They don’t need help from unawakened soldiers. Maybe from you, Bran, as you have Awakened, but the rest of us?"

  "Their procession was attacked by a frost drake. They suffered casualties." Bran stated matter-of-factly.

  Kaeric’s easygoing demeanor vanished in an instant. "What is a frost drake doing this far from the peaks?"

  Aeor and Lyra exchanged a glance. Mirelle sat forward, brows drawing together.

  "We don’t know," Bran said. "Captain Fenric reported that the attack occurred ten days ago. Seven of the twenty Royal Guards fell during the fight."

  A cold silence settled in the room.

  Mirelle broke it. "Lyra and I were wondering... the prince and princess haven’t even come of age yet. The Awakening ceremony isn’t until twenty-three winters. Their older brother, Crown Prince Balor, waited his turn like everyone else. So why are they risking this journey now? Especially with the Deep North becoming more dangerous by the day."

  Aeor nodded. "Not to mention how quiet this whole thing has been. When Prince Balor began his expedition, the entire empire knew. Runners carried word to every corner of Calen. But this? No fanfare, no announcement, just a quiet movement north."

  "We’ve asked those same questions," Bran said, the gravel in his voice softening. "But Captain Fenric didn’t have answers either."

  The Deep North is stirring, Aeor thought. Frost drakes are moving south, beasts are restless, and the heirs to the throne are venturing into danger. What aren’t they telling us?

  Lyra leaned toward him, voice dropping. "What if it’s a plot? From Balor. To get rid of them."

  Her suggestion hit like a stone tossed into still water. For a moment, no one reacted.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Then Kaeric chuckled. Bran rolled his eyes.

  "Lyra," Bran said, tone caught between exhaustion and amusement, "we are not doing this again."

  Mirelle shook her head, though a smile tugged at her lips.

  Kaeric grinned. "You remember Whitebirch, right? When Lyra swore the mayor was a vampire?"

  "I still stand by that theory," Lyra muttered. "His sleep schedule was all over the place and all that red wine he was drinking was clearly blood."

  "What about the underground chamber we found beneath his study?" Kaeric said, laughing. "The expression on his face when we opened that trapdoor, worth the two-month pay cut."

  Laughter rippled around the table, the tension finally breaking. Conversations splintered for there. Some drifted to mundane matters like apothecary prices or gossip from the outer towns, others retold the infamous tale of Whitebirch with growing exaggeration.

  Eventually, the room settled. Bran stood.

  "The royal procession arrives tomorrow. They'll rest here for one night, resupply, then move for the ruins. This is the final checkpoint town. Beyond this point, the land isn't well mapped. I want everyone ready. Spend the day gathering supplies, tightening your gear, and getting your heads straight."

  His gaze swept over them, lingering briefly on Aeor.

  "We leave at dawn the day after. Dismissed."

  Everyone went their separate ways after the meeting. Aeor made his way to the local tanner, getting a few tears in his leather coat patched up. From there, he stopped by the Purple Apothecary, a modest shop tucked between a bakery and a cobbler, where he exchanged his soldier’s allocation for a small set of potions, nothing rare, but enough to matter.

  The errands took most of the day. By the time he finished sorting his gear and supplies, the sun was already kissing the western horizon. Rather than return to Cedric’s immediately, he took a detour past the forge.

  The familiar glow of firelight leaked through the cracks of the smithy. Curious, Aeor stepped inside.

  Cedric stood over the sharpening wheel, grinding the edge of a short sword. Sparks danced off the blade with every turn.

  "I thought you’d be done for the day," Aeor said.

  "I was," Cedric replied without looking up. "Then I came back. Needed a distraction."

  "Distraction? Want to talk about it?"

  Cedric let out a scoffing chuckle. "Talk. Gods, I remember when you were just a loud little brat running through your father's forge, smearing soot on everything and thinking it was war paint. Now look at you barely nineteen winters and are already off chasing legends."

  Aeor dragged over a stool and sat beside him.

  "Feels like I’m just running from reality," he said quietly.

  Cedric stopped sharpening and looked at him. "They’re still alive, Aeor. My sister’s an Awakened. Your father... he’s the toughest bastard I’ve ever met."

  "It’s been three years, Uncle. If they were coming back, they would have."

  Cedric said nothing for a long moment. Then, with a quiet grunt, he wiped down the blade and set it aside. "Help me close up. Then come with me."

  They shut down the forge together, a practiced ritual of dousing heat and locking shutters. Cedric’s home sat just a few streets away, a sturdy build of dark timber and stone like most in Eldermoor, warm and worn by time.

  Inside, the house was simple but spacious. The ground floor held a hall, kitchen, and dining space. Upstairs were two bedrooms. But it was the basement Aeor knew best, a training room filled with weapons, old dummies, and a rare gravitational relic gifted by Aeor’s father to Cedric.

  Aeor had been staying with Cedric during his time in town. It wasn’t a request; it was insistence.

  "Take a seat," Cedric said, gesturing toward the central table.

  Aeor sat, and Cedric disappeared upstairs. He returned a few minutes later with a small ornate wooden box.

  He set it down gently and opened it. Inside rested a silver amulet shaped like a hammer that was carved with intricate runes. At its center was a tiny violet gem that seemed to pulse faintly.

  Cedric lifted it out and attached it to a thin chain before offering it to Aeor.

  "This belonged to your mother. She asked me to give it to you when the time was right."

  Aeor took the amulet, his fingers brushing over the gem. "When did she give this to you?"

  "Just before they left for the Forgotten Lands."

  Aeor’s eyes narrowed. "And why now? What makes this the right time?"

  Cedric shrugged, but his voice was quieter. "Does intuition count?"

  Aeor studied him, searching his face. "Are you hiding something from me?"

  The question hung in the air. Cedric didn’t answer.

  Instead, he turned. "Get some rest, Aeor. Tomorrow’s a long day."

  Left alone, Aeor stared at the amulet. The violet gem shimmered faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.

  Is this enchanted? he wondered. What did Mother mean by 'when the time was right'?

  A deep sigh escaped him.

  I don’t think I even deserve to ask. All I’ve done is run.

  He gripped the amulet tightly, then slowly slipped it over his neck.

  The next few days passed in a blur of quiet tension. The royal procession reached Eldermoor the following morning, weary and wounded. Though heavy with casualties, they declared they would continue northward the following day, sticking to their original plan, bolstered by the addition of Bran's squad and another. The decision raised eyebrows, but no one openly questioned it. Orders were orders.

  As they pressed further into the north, the landscape changed. Vegetation thinned until the trees stood like brittle husks, and even the wind seemed to bite deeper. Though everyone expected monsters, the encounters were scarce. In the two weeks since their departure, they had yet to suffer a single loss.

  "We make camp here," came the voice of Alira, the Commander of the Royal Guard. She stood tall in her pale cloak, her silver-threaded hair catching the last light of day. "Tomorrow, we cross into the Deep North. A day’s march more, and we will reach the ancient ruins."

  She paused, looking at the horizon where the sun dipped behind the cliffs. "Consider it a blessing of Véurr that the ruins lie on the edge of the true cold. It is impossible to survive in the heart of the deep north, but don't take this for granted. We will be faced by ferocious beasts who call the deep north home. Stick to the formations we have established and stay calm, but for now, rest and recuperate."

  The sky was clearer than it had been in weeks, stars emerging in quiet waves across a deep indigo backdrop. Aeor found himself perched atop a weathered boulder near the edge of camp, watching them slowly take shape. The constellations, foreign yet familiar, offered a strange comfort.

  Mirelle approached, a thick shawl draped over her fur-lined cloak. Without a word, she sat beside him, her breath misting in the crisp air.

  They sat in silence, the stars their only audience.

  "Do you believe what the seers say?" Aeor asked, voice low. "About the Initiation. About other worlds being drawn into the fold."

  Mirelle turned to study him. "The Initiation?"

  He nodded. "All the worlds beyond the reach of the Eternal Consciousness. Drawn in. Tested. Measured."

  She exhaled softly. "My parents were devout followers of Véurr Mímir. A part of me still clings to those stories."

  "Only a part?"

  Mirelle looked skyward. "It sounds so distant. So impossible. Worlds where everyone’s Awakened, where some have even transcended that state. It's hard to picture when we’re still struggling to clear the frostline."

  Aeor didn’t answer. His gaze never left the stars.

  After a beat, Mirelle spoke again. "You’ve been distant lately. Since we left Eldermoor."

  He finally turned toward her. "My mother believed. So did my father."

  She blinked, surprised. It was the first time he’d ever spoken of his family beyond a passing mention of Cedric.

  "After this expedition," Aeor continued, "I’m going to request formal leave. A few years, maybe more."

  "Why? Where will you go?"

  "West."

  Mirelle’s brow furrowed. "Into the Dominion of Veral?"

  Aeor paused. "No. Beyond that."

  She studied him for a long moment, the firelight dancing in her eyes.

  Then, with a soft smile, she said, "Fine. I’ll go with you. The others might not agree right away, but they’ll come around."

  "You do realize I’m talking about the Forgotten Lands, right? No maps. No roads. Just legends and ruins."

  "Exactly why I’m coming," she said firmly. "You’re family, Aeor. We might not share blood ties, but I consider everyone in our squad as family, and that matters."

  Aeor let out a breath and lay back on the boulder. "Thanks."

  A smile played at his lips.

  Mirelle gave him a moment before shifting the subject. "Bran spoke to Commander Alira. You and Lyra are being granted permission to witness and take part in the Awakening ceremony."

  Aeor shot upright. "What!? But... it’s a royal Awakening. We’re common-born. We’re not even of age."

  "It’s not an official ceremony either," Mirelle replied, chuckling. "And don’t let it get to your head. Being present doesn’t guarantee anything."

  But Aeor was already on his feet. He hugged her briefly before taking off toward camp. "I need to talk to Bran!"

  Mirelle watched him go, a bemused smile on her lips. "This kid..."

  She leaned back on the boulder, eyes drifting upward only to freeze.

  Faint green streaks had begun to spread across the sky, shimmering like ghostly fire.

  The warmth drained from her face.

  "Véurr, bless us," she whispered. "It’s the Veilfire."

  The next morning, the expedition gathered in the chill hush of dawn, clustered around the embers of the campfire. A heavy stillness hung in the air. Though none said it aloud, every soul there had seen the same thing the night before—Veilfire streaking across the sky, cold and silent, a harbinger of things best left unspoken.

  Aeor had expected Commander Alira to speak first. Instead, a gentle yet commanding voice rose above the hush.

  "Everyone," said Crown Princess Eloria, stepping forward with Prince Daemon at her side. "I want to extend my heartfelt thanks to each of you who have stood with us during this journey. I know you have questions about this expedition, about the omens we’ve witnessed, and about what lies ahead. In time, those questions will be answered. But for now, I ask only that you walk with us a little further."

  Then, in a gesture no one expected, Eloria bowed. Prince Daemon followed suit, heads bowed low before soldiers, mages, scouts, and squires.

  Commander Alira stepped forward, hand over heart. "Your Grace. We are honored to serve."

  Those words, simple as they were, shifted something in the hearts of the gathered. The air lightened. They stood taller.

  The final march began.

  The Deep North was nothing like Aeor had imagined. He had expected howling winds and bone-deep cold. Instead, it was deathly quiet in a way that felt unnatural. Snow blanketed the world, smooth and unbroken. The clouds above mirrored the ground below until the two met at a distant blur. There was no horizon, only white.

  "On your guard," Commander Alira warned. "The beasts here are not like those you've faced."

  But nothing came.

  No beasts. No sounds. No winds. Only the soft crunch of boots against snow and the rhythmic breath of dozens marching forward. Seers, not navigators, led the way, their veils fluttering in the still air as they read paths through divine sight rather than a map.

  A quiet dread began to fester in the silence, fed by the memory of the Veilfire and the unnatural calm. But no one voiced it. Not here. Not now.

  Hours passed.

  Then, it appeared.

  The ruins.

  Jagged spires of black stone rose from the snow like the ribs of some ancient, fallen Véurr. Etchings pulsed faintly along their sides, veins of light in shifting hues. A towering archway loomed ahead, its entrance like a gaping maw into the forgotten past.

  Aeor stepped forward, breath caught in his throat.

  And the world fell away.

  Vertigo hit him like a crashing tide. His vision dimmed, and then, nothing.

  He was floating. Suspended in darkness.

  No ground. No stars. Just the memory of snow, of faces, of footsteps... fading.

  Then, a voice, not heard but felt. Deep, ancient. Like stone grinding beneath the skin of the world.

  "Scion of Death. Your flame flickers, but it endures. Embrace it. Become more."

  Scion of Death? Aeor thought.

  "Who are you? What am I meant to embrace?"

  "Your destiny."

  He hesitated. "Why me?"

  The darkness pulsed slowly, like the beat of a distant heart, but there was no response. The weight of time pressed on. Aeor felt it. Whatever this was, it was not waiting.

  He clenched his fists. "Then I accept."

  The darkness cracked.

  A blinding white light split the void.

  In the waking world, Aeor’s body lifted off the snow, limp but rising. A shockwave of violet mana burst from him in every direction, hurling nearby soldiers and seers to the ground. His amulet flared, blazing with the color of twilight.

  Then, just as suddenly, he dropped.

  Unconscious.

  Two muffled voices pierced the darkness.

  At first, the words were indistinct, swallowed by the weightless darkness. But slowly, clarity returned. Aeor recognized them, Lyra and Kaeric. The surrounding air rumbled faintly as pale light began to bleed through the darkness. His senses stirred, sluggish but returning.

  "I’m telling you, it’s not safe to hold the ceremony now," Kaeric said, tension threading in his voice. "You saw what happened—"

  "He’s moving," Lyra interrupted, her tone soft but urgent.

  Aeor opened his eyes.

  A dull ache pulsed behind them. He was lying on a smooth stone inside a massive chamber. Pale blue crystals embedded in the walls gave off a cold, flickering light. The air smelled faintly of ozone and mana.

  Lyra moved to his side, concern etched across her face.

  "You’re awake. Are you alright?"

  Aeor pushed himself up slowly, muscles trembling. "What happened?"

  Kaeric and Lyra exchanged a glance, one that spoke volumes.

  "Right after you collapsed," Kaeric began, "the sky cracked. A violet mist started falling."

  Aeor blinked. "Cracked?"

  Kaeric’s voice dropped. "Seers say the barrier broke. The one erected by the Véurr over five millennia ago, to keep the Void Dwellers sealed beyond reach in the Forgotten Lands."

  Silence followed. Heavy. Choking.

  All three of them understood what that meant. The last time the Void Dwellers walked the world, humanity had barely survived. Entire kingdoms swallowed. Millions dead. The Véurr had sacrificed everything to forge that barrier.

  Aeor tried to stand but staggered. Lyra caught him.

  "Easy," she said. "You should be resting. You just... awakened."

  Aeor’s gaze locked on hers. Then shifted to Kaeric.

  "What do you mean, awakened? When did the ceremony happen?"

  Kaeric looked grim. "It didn’t."

  That landed like a stone in his gut.

  "None of this makes sense," Kaeric continued, voice tight. "The beasts fleeing the North. The Deep North being empty. The barrier breaking. Your awakening outside the ceremony. This entire expedition, it’s a facade. And the Royals, the seers, they know more than they’re letting on."

  His frustration flared. "We should be riding for the southern front, warning the cities of what's coming, not stay here in this cursed ruin. It’s no wonder—"

  He stopped mid-sentence. His eyes had drifted to Aeor’s chest.

  To the amulet.

  It pulsed with a strong violet light.

  Lyra and Aeor followed his gaze.

  Aeor’s fingers closed around the pendant. The glow throbbed against his palm.

  "I need to see the sky," Aeor whispered.

  Without hesitation, Kaeric moved to help him up. Lyra handed him his spear.

  Supported on both sides, Aeor rose and limped toward the chamber doors.

  His heart pounded. A creeping dread settled in his chest.

  How is this amulet connected? Did Mother and Father know? Did Cedric? What was that voice? Was it truly an awakening, or something else entirely?

  The questions stormed through him, unanswered.

  Kaeric opened the doors.

  They stepped into a long hallway lit by faint sconces. Doors lined either side. At the far end, in front of a large darksteel gate, two Royal Guards lay motionless.

  Aeor’s grip tightened on his spear. He straightened, stepping forward under his own power.

  As they approached, the scene came into chilling focus.

  Black veins spidered across the guards’ faces. Their eyes were pitch black. Lifeless.

  "What happened here?" Lyra whispered.

  Kaeric kneeled beside one, carefully avoiding contact.

  "I don’t know," he muttered. "And I don’t want to wait around to find out. Let’s find Bran and Mirelle. We need to leave. Now."

  Lyra nodded, her expression grave.

  Aeor said nothing.

  The glow from his amulet pulsed once more, like a heartbeat echoing the weight of what had just begun.

  Opening the ancient doors revealed an outer balcony, its blackened stone dusted in violet snow. A staircase descended into the ruin’s lower tiers.

  Aeor stepped forward, drawn to the edge. Above, the sky was marred by a massive, jagged scar of violet light. From it fell shimmering specks like snow.

  "Beautiful, isn’t it?" said a voice, smooth, regal, and unmistakably inhuman.

  All three turned toward the source.

  Ascending the steps below was a tall figure clad in a scaled tunic that shimmered like molten obsidian, each segment of serpent-hide catching the low light with an oily sheen. A deep crimson mantle trailed behind him, etched in sigils that pulsed like breathing embers.

  His hair, slick and ashen, framed sharply his aristocratic features. And his eyes were pitch-black voids that seemed to drink in the world.

  He was wiping a dagger clean of blood.

  Kaeric’s bow was in hand in an instant, arrow notched. Lyra drew a small vial from her belt, fingers tense.

  Aeor didn’t move. He stared at the figure. And the figure stared back.

  "One more step and I’ll kill you," Kaeric snarled. "Who are you?"

  Aeor stepped forward.

  "Aeor, stop," Kaeric warned. "You can’t fight, not like this."

  But Aeor’s eyes stayed locked on the stranger. He took another step.

  "...Father?"

  The silence that followed was thick with disbelief. Lyra’s eyes widened. Kaeric’s grip faltered.

  The figure smiled faintly.

  "So you do remember me, child."

  He continued his ascent until he stood only a breath away from Aeor.

  "What are you doing here? What happened to your eyes?" Aeor asked.

  "I’m here for you."

  There was a silence that echoed, and the tension was palpable.

  "Where’s Mother?"

  The figure’s smile deepened. "You’ve grown."

  In the next instant, his hand drove forward through Aeor’s chest. Fingers closed around Aeor’s heart. Blood bloomed.

  Lyra dropped to her knees, unable to speak, unable to process.

  Kaeric loosed his arrow. Rage evident in his features. In the same motion, the figure raised his other hand, conjuring a translucent field of Mana that deflected the projectile like dust. He extended the force outward, sending Kaeric flying from the balcony with a single gesture, all without taking his eyes off Aeor.

  Aeor gasped, the world tilting. Cold seeped into his limbs.

  "Why?" he choked, blood trailing from his lips.

  "The Initiation is coming, child. Embrace who you are."

  Those were the last words Aeor heard before the darkness took him.