The capital city, Virelion, was not made for men like Kael.
Its towers were carved from blackstone and boneglass, spires spiraling like claws reaching for the gods. The walls themselves breathed—ancient enchantments alive in the stone, pulsing with the rhythm of forgotten hearts.
Kael and his companions stood before the southern gate, cloaked in dust and silence.
A storm churned on the horizon.
Not of wind or rain.
Of power.
The Gate of Eyes
Virelion's outer wall was an enigma—called the Gate of Eyes—where over a thousand sculpted faces were carved into obsidian. No two were alike.
As Kael approached, the eyes opened.
Not the stone.
The real eyes beneath.
Each statue whispered something different as they passed:
"Ashborn…"
"Godkiller…"
"The Lost Flame…"
"Your father waits…"
Kael flinched at the last.
Only he heard that one.
Ash muttered a curse and spat on the stones. "This city was always cursed."
Nira scanned the rooftops. "No guards. No archers. They want us inside."
"Because the real trap is in there," Iris finished, her voice a cold dagger.
Kael's hand hovered near the hilt of his blade.
"Then we go."
Inside the Capital
Virelion's streets were too clean. Too empty.
They walked through market squares with food untouched, homes still lit, fires still burning—but no people. Only a heavy hush sat on the air, like the whole city was holding its breath.
It wasn't until they reached the Marrow Bridge—the only crossing to the inner sanctum—that they saw the welcome party.
The False King, flanked by a ring of black-armored Wardens.
And behind him, a cage made of burning chains.
Inside, beaten, bloodied, and barely conscious—
Rael.
Kael's half-brother.
The prince.
The one who'd survived the purge and vanished.
Brother
Kael froze.
Memories surged—of a boy with the same gray eyes, of childhood spars, stolen bread, whispered stories in the palace garden.
Of betrayal.
"You're alive," Kael said quietly.
Rael looked up through the chains, lips cracked. "And you came."
The False King stepped forward. He was tall, draped in robes laced with molten silver, and his crown was shaped like a wreath of blades.
His voice was gentle. Deceptively so.
"We've waited a long time for you, Kael."
Kael didn't speak.
The King smiled. "You have two choices. Step through the Ashen Gate willingly… or watch this city burn."
Behind him, a column of cultists stood with torches and glowing runes. Among them, a robed figure Kael recognized instantly:
The Seer of Hollow Flame—the prophet who had once whispered in his ear as a child.
The one who started it all.
The Echo
Kael stepped forward.
The air thickened, the sigil on his back burning bright beneath his armor.
"I choose a third path," Kael said.
The King's eyes narrowed.
"I free my brother. I open the Gate. But I do it on my terms. No crown. No leash. No prophecy."
The Seer laughed. "You cannot fight the Ashen Gate. You are the gate."
Kael drew his blade.
"No," he said. "I'm the one who decides who walks through it."