The ruins of Velmora still smoked days after the Herald's fall.
Kellen stood alone at the mouth of the broken gate, watching the horizon through a curtain of ash. The wind stirred his cloak like a dying breath. Behind him, the bones of gods and men lay in uneasy silence, and the newly reborn Iron-Wyrdborne sat motionless beneath the shadow of the cathedral tower.
The world should have felt lighter. But it didn't.
He couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat. Couldn't stop replaying the final charge, the look on the Wyrdborne's face as the Herald drove its claw into his chest, the faint smile just before the light took him.
He had called him brother.
And now he was gone—reborn into steel, silent, distant.
Not the same.
"You need rest."
Elyra's voice broke the quiet. She stood behind him, arms folded, eyes red-rimmed from smoke and something heavier. Grief suited her differently than it did him—it didn't make her brittle. It hardened her. Sharpened the fire inside her.
"I'll rest when it's over," Kellen murmured.
"It is over," she said, stepping closer. "The Herald is dead."
He turned to her slowly. "One Herald."
Elyra's brow furrowed. "Kellen…"
"They said there were more. That the gods had many faces. Mevrion was only one. What if the others stir next?"
"We'll deal with them when they come."
"And if we're not ready?"
"You said it yourself," she snapped. "We stop it here. We stop them here. Don't start doubting now."
He met her gaze.
And for a moment—just a breath—they said nothing.
Then Kellen exhaled. "You're right."
A pause.
"You always are."
Elyra stepped beside him, eyes on the horizon. "What happens now?"
Kellen looked down at the gauntlet on his wrist—the last of the Wyrdborne's old iron, now fused to his flesh. "We gather. The tribes. The outposts. The fractured enclaves. The world's been bleeding too long. We stop the next war before it starts."
"And if they don't want peace?"
Kellen smiled, but there was no humor in it. "Then we remind them what's waiting in the dark."
They stood together in silence for a while, the wind teasing ashes into the sky like drifting ghosts.
Then Kellen turned and walked back into the ruin.
Word of the Herald's defeat spread like wildfire.
In the weeks that followed, envoys arrived from the distant northern holds, from the Deepwater citadels, and from across the fractured realms of Old Theralyn. Most came seeking truth—many came seeking power.
They found a graveyard.
Kellen met them in the Hall of Echoes, a half-collapsed chamber beneath the cathedral now lit with wyrdlights and ringed in iron. Elyra stood to his right, flame dancing along her fingertips. To his left, the Iron-Wyrdborne sat motionless on a throne of blackened stone.
"I don't care what flags you flew before," Kellen said, addressing the gathered emissaries. "I don't care who you served. We all bleed the same now. The gods don't want thrones. They want slaughter. If we fight among ourselves again, we lose."
A murmur ran through the chamber.
An emissary from Aramvire—robed in pale silks and bearing the broken seal of their drowned Queen—stood.
"You speak of unity. But who leads?"
Kellen stared at him.
"No one. Not one. All. This isn't a kingdom. This is a covenant. We protect the seals. We hunt the echoes. We bury the past."
"And if someone refuses?"
Elyra spoke, voice like fire through dry grass. "Then they get buried with it."
That silenced the room.
The emissaries left with wary eyes and tightened grips on their satchels.
Later, Kellen found Elyra standing atop the tower once more.
"Too harsh?" she asked.
"No. They needed to hear it."
He stepped beside her.
"Do you ever think about before?"
Elyra tilted her head. "Before what?"
"All of it."
Her eyes darkened. "Every day."
There was a long silence.
Then she said, "When this is done—when the gods are forgotten—what will you do?"
He didn't answer at first.
Then: "Build something. Maybe in the lowlands. Grow trees instead of burying people beneath them."
"And me?" she asked, softly.
Kellen turned to her fully.
"You'll be there."
The fire in her eyes flickered. Just a little.
And then he kissed her.
Not out of passion. Not desperation. But because they were still alive, and that meant something.
For now.
That night, the Iron-Wyrdborne stirred.
Kellen woke to the sound of grinding metal. He rushed to the Hall and found the construct standing in the center of the rune circle, iron eyes blazing.
Elyra followed moments later, blade drawn.
"What's happening?" she demanded.
The Wyrdborne's voice echoed like stone cracking.
"They stir."
Kellen stepped forward. "Who?"
"The Forgotten Four."
Kellen's blood chilled.
He knew the name. The first four gods to fall—never entombed, never sealed. Lost during the Breaking. Their names had become whispers even the Wyrdborne refused to speak.
"Where?" Elyra asked.
The Wyrdborne turned slowly.
"Beneath the Ashmere. In the Depths Below."
Kellen exchanged a glance with Elyra.
"We'll go," he said.
But the Wyrdborne raised a hand. "No. Not yet. There's something else."
He turned to Kellen.
"A choice."
The flames in the brazier dimmed. The room felt colder.
Kellen stepped into the circle. "What choice?"
The Wyrdborne knelt and opened his chestplate. Inside, where a heart should be, was a stone—black as night, glowing faintly with violet runes.
"This is the last shard of Mevrion's essence. Sealed when I destroyed his Herald. It's bound to my soul—but it's not dead. It speaks. It waits."
Elyra's voice was low. "Why didn't you say this before?"
"Because I wasn't strong enough to contain it," the Wyrdborne said. "But you might be."
He looked at Kellen.
"You forged yourself in fire. In loss. In loyalty. I see the shape of something greater in you. Something dangerous."
Kellen stared at the shard.
"What happens if I take it?"
"You risk everything."
"And if I leave it?"
"We may not survive the next Herald."
Kellen reached forward.
Then stopped.
Elyra stepped beside him. "You don't have to do this."
"I do," he whispered. "If this gives us a chance to stop what's coming—it's worth it."
He grasped the shard.
Pain lanced through him—lightning and ice and hunger and memory. He screamed. The world cracked.
And then—
Silence.
When he opened his eyes, he saw more.
The future. The past. The lies that stitched history.
He saw the Four.
And he knew their names.
He didn't speak for three days.
Elyra stayed at his side, feeding him broth, guiding his trembling hands, helping him walk again.
On the fourth day, he rose and spoke.
"They were not gods," he said. "Not at first. They were kings. Sorcerers. Builders. The first to bind the Wyrd into form."
"They ascended?" Elyra asked.
"They took it," Kellen said. "From the land. From the sky. From the blood of mortals. And now… they want it back."
He looked at her, eyes glowing faintly violet.
"We have to find their tombs."
Elyra folded her arms. "And destroy them?"
"No," Kellen said. "Bind them."
The Iron-Wyrdborne spoke for the first time in days.
"There's only one place strong enough."
Kellen turned to him.
"The Crucible," they said together.
It was not a place.
It was the forge that had birthed the Sentinel. The place where Maldrin had died. Where soul met steel.
It had been sealed after the Breaking.
To reach it… they would need to descend into the Void Below.
And face the thing that even the gods feared.