The silence that followed was loud. Deafening, even.
Vael stood there, the shards of the crown scattered at his feet. No whispers. No pull. Just a hollow pressure behind his eyes, like something that had been scraped out of him.
Elira stared at him, wary. The others didn't speak.
He reached down and picked up what remained.
Not the crown.Just the ring.
Small. Crude. A dull black band.
It felt warm in his hand, not like before—this time, the warmth didn't burn. It pulsed. Like a heartbeat.
He turned it slowly, watching the edges glint with faint gold. Something stirred inside it. Not a voice. Not a curse.
Just presence.
"I think it's changed," he muttered.
Reylen stepped forward. "You destroyed the crown. How is it still here?"
"I didn't destroy it," Vael said. "I just broke what it was pretending to be."
He slid the ring onto his finger.
No whispers.No surge of power.No pain.
Just... stillness.
And then, a faint flicker beneath his skin. Like his blood remembered something.
Nyra narrowed her eyes. "You're not the same."
"I'm not," Vael said. "But I'm not what I was before either."
Elira looked at the others. "Then what are you now?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he turned toward the last chamber of the Forge.
The core.
They followed without a word.
The air grew hotter with every step. The stone groaned under their feet. Runes lined the walls, flickering weakly—traces of a forge long dead.
They entered the chamber.
At its center was a cracked anvil, still faintly glowing. A single beam of light poured from a hole in the ceiling, casting the place in gold and ash.
Vael walked forward.
"This is where it ends," he said quietly.
Nyra tilted her head. "Ends?"
"No," Elira corrected. "This is where we begin."
He smiled faintly.
Then he took the ring off and placed it on the anvil.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the anvil cracked wider.
A hum filled the chamber, low and heavy.
The ring began to change—melting without heat, reshaping itself in midair. Its surface smoothed. Symbols carved themselves along the edge, unfamiliar yet instinctively understood.
It was no longer cursed.
It was chosen.
A weapon of will, not hunger.
When it cooled, Vael picked it up again.
And this time, when he wore it, the air bent to him.
Not in reverence.
But in acknowledgment.
He turned to the others.
"I'm done chasing power," he said. "Now it follows me."
Behind them, the mountain rumbled. Stones cracked. The forge, once silent, began to breathe again.
And above it all, the wind whispered something new.
Not a curse.
But a calling.