Far from the scorched wilds of the Southern Marches, the capital of Elarion gleamed under polished towers and golden banners. A place of peace, power… and secrets buried beneath silver smiles.
But peace was only a curtain.
And behind it, the Crown was afraid.
The High Chamber convened in silence. Duke Velric, his grey beard braided in courtly fashion, unrolled the sealed report from the Marches.
"What is this madness?" he muttered. "Villages gone. Shard echoes. Auren Rivenhart? Leading?"
Queen Thalira's gaze was unreadable, her fingers tapping the armrest of her throne. "Madness or not… it spreads. The Rift stirs again."
Around her, whispers bloomed like poison flowers.
"Is it him?"
"Too young."
"But the boy bears a Shard, does he not?"
"A corrupted one."
The Queen raised a hand, silencing them all.
"Send word to House Rivenhart. Summon the Lords. And double the Blackguard near the throne."
Velric frowned. "You suspect rebellion?"
She didn't answer.
Because what she truly feared wasn't rebellion.
It was awakening.
In the east wing of the palace, a cloaked figure knelt in shadows.
"The boy touches forgotten things," the figure rasped. "He sings to the lost."
The Queen turned her head slightly. "And what do the lost say?"
"They stir. They listen."
"And the Choir?"
The figure paused.
"They remember… him."
Meanwhile, at Rivenhart Keep, Lord Veylan stood before the ancient war-table, his fingers tracing the edges of a map now marked with ash-colored ink. His daughter, Selene, entered.
"You heard?"
"Yes," she said. "Auren survives. And leads."
Her voice carried no joy. No pride. Only worry.
"Then the court will come for us," Veylan muttered. "Sooner than we hoped."
Selene looked at her father, eyes sharp. "Let them. The Crown may fear him—but we trained him. He is still one of us."
Veylan gave a long, quiet sigh.
"That's what I'm afraid of."
In the Southern Marches, Auren stood on a ridge watching distant smoke curl like fingers toward the sky. Lys joined him, her cloak brushing the grass.
"They'll come for you, won't they?" she asked.
He nodded. "Eventually."
"What will you do?"
Auren didn't answer immediately. The fire inside him still burned—stronger now, darker too. His dreams were no longer just dreams. They were memories.
Songs. Screams. Wings made of light and ruin.
"When they do," he said softly, "they'll expect a boy with broken gifts."
"And?"
"They'll meet something else."
Far beneath the palace, in vaults carved by forgotten hands, the Choir's seal stirred.
A single crack traced across the stone.
It pulsed.
And somewhere far away, Auren blinked—his heart skipping.
The voice was louder now.
And it was calling him home.