The night air was heavy with the scent of smoke and blood as Elian and the others moved deeper into the ruins, leaving behind the battlefield littered with the fallen. Every step Elian took was a reminder of the poison that had tried to consume him — and the strange new power now thrumming in his veins.
Talren walked beside him, glancing often at the golden glow still flickering faintly under Elian's skin.
"You shouldn't be alive," Talren muttered. "Not after a Soulpiercer wound. Not unless..."
"Unless what?" Maren demanded, her hand never leaving the hilt of her sword.
Talren hesitated, his fingers twitching nervously. "Unless the blood of the Old Kings still runs pure in his veins."
The words hung in the air like a thunderclap.
Elian stopped.
The Old Kings.
The legends spoke of them — rulers from a forgotten era, beings who had bargained with forces older than time itself. It was said their descendants had vanished centuries ago, hunted to extinction by those who feared their power.
Was that why the Council had tried to erase him?
Had his mother known all along?
He clenched his fists. The answers were close now — he could feel it.
---
Talren led them to a cracked stone archway hidden beneath layers of vines and rubble. With a few murmured words, he triggered ancient runes along the arch, and the stones shuddered and shifted, revealing a narrow stair spiraling downward into darkness.
The smell of old magic hit them like a wall — heavy, metallic, undeniable.
Maren wrinkled her nose. "This place is cursed."
"No," Talren corrected softly. "It's protected."
They descended in silence, the only sound their boots scuffing against ancient stone. The deeper they went, the colder the air became — not the simple chill of the earth, but something bone-deep, something that whispered of forgotten memories and sealed destinies.
At the bottom of the stairs was a vast underground hall, its ceiling lost in shadow. In the center stood a dais carved with swirling runes, and atop it, an ancient relic: a mirror framed in black iron, its surface rippling like water.
Elian stepped closer, drawn as if by an invisible hand.
"This," Talren said, voice barely a whisper, "is the Mirror of Veritas. It reveals the truth of one's blood."
Maren frowned. "How do you know about this?"
"I studied the forbidden texts," Talren said with a bitter smile. "The Council destroyed most of the records... but not all."
Elian touched the mirror's frame. The surface shimmered.
"You must be sure," Talren warned. "Once you see the truth... you can never go back."
Elian didn't hesitate.
He pressed his palm against the mirror.
---
The world shifted.
The underground hall vanished, swallowed by a roaring wind.
When Elian opened his eyes, he stood on a vast plain of stars. A river of light flowed at his feet, and before him towered a figure cloaked in shadow and flame — a man with eyes like burning suns and a crown of living vines and gold.
"You have awakened," the figure said, voice vibrating through the cosmos. "You are the last true heir of the First Line — the blood of Arelion the Unbroken flows through you."
Visions raced before Elian's eyes:
— Arelion leading armies against the darkness.
— The betrayal of the First Council, who feared his power.
— The massacre of his bloodline, their names erased from history.
"You were hidden," the figure said. "Your blood diluted, your name buried. But the seed remained. And now, in the hour of greatest need, it blooms anew."
Elian staggered back, overwhelmed.
"Why me?" he whispered.
"Because you have the will to choose your path," the figure said. "And because your enemies have grown complacent, thinking the Old Blood was gone."
The figure extended a hand.
"Take your birthright. Claim what was stolen. Or walk away, and let the world burn."
Elian stared at the offered hand.
His heart thundered in his chest.
Could he bear the weight of what was to come?
Could he afford not to?
Slowly, he reached out —
And the world shattered.
---
He gasped, stumbling back from the mirror, Maren catching him before he could fall.
"Elian!" she cried. "What did you see?"
He looked at her — truly looked — and realized there was no going back.
"I saw who I am," he said quietly.
Talren's eyes gleamed with something between awe and fear. "You are the heir of Arelion."
Elian nodded.
Maren's grip on his arm tightened. "Then we need to move. Fast. If the Council learns what you are... they'll unleash everything they have."
"They already have," Talren said grimly, glancing back at the tunnel. "Listen."
Faintly, on the edge of hearing, came the sound of boots. Hundreds of them. Marching closer.
"They're here."
Elian straightened, the glow beneath his skin pulsing stronger.
"No," he said. "They're too late."
---
Aboveground, the storm was breaking — but a new storm was gathering on the horizon.
The Council's armies.
The Forsworn.
The Black Vultures.
All converging on one place: here.
The ruins trembled as siege engines rolled into position, as banners bearing the sigil of the Serpent Council snapped in the wind.
Maren drew her sword with a savage grin. "How do you want to play this?"
Elian drew his glowing blade — no longer a relic, but a weapon of destiny.
"We fight," he said. "And we show them what happens when you try to erase a bloodline that refuses to die."
Talren smiled grimly. "About time someone reminded them."
Together, they turned to face the coming tide.
The ground shook with the weight of marching death.
But Elian stood tall, unafraid.
Because this was no longer just about survival.
It was about reclaiming a legacy.
And he would not be denied.
---