The crypt's air clung to their skin, damp and heavy. As Aelion and Kealen ascended the winding stair, the silence between them was not born of distance, but of the storm raging in both their hearts.
At last, Kealen spoke, his voice low but steady. "The vision… it showed us together, yes. But the mirror never said what happens after."
Aelion slowed, hand brushing the cold stone wall. His crown weighed heavier than iron now. "Perhaps that is the point. Prophecies speak in riddles because truth is not a chain—it is a choice. If I must choose between destiny and you, Kealen…" His words faltered, but his hand sought Kealen's, lacing their fingers in the dark. "…I already know where I stand."
Kealen stopped him there on the stair, eyes blazing with a fire fiercer than any torch. "Then we will stand together, even if the heavens burn."
The vow echoed between them, binding tighter than any oath sworn before priests.
---
In the Shadowlands
Far to the east, beneath skies bruised with storm, the shadow's army stirred.
The prisoner—no longer frail, no longer bound—walked at its head. Chains coiled around his arms, alive with dark fire, each step cracking the earth beneath him. Behind him marched thousands: once-mortal soldiers twisted by shadow's touch, their eyes silver, their voices hollow.
The Shadow itself loomed above them like a storm given flesh, whispering into their minds as one.
"March west. To the sun's heart. The throne shall break, and the prophecy fulfilled."
Drums began to pound—a rhythm like a heartbeat, echoing across the fields of ash. Birds scattered from the trees, animals fled from the valleys, for the land itself recoiled from their passage.
And yet, within that tide of darkness, the prisoner's smile was sharp as a blade. "He walks the path of mirrors. Let him. The further he goes, the more certain his fall becomes."
---
The Council's Chamber
At that same moment, in the golden palace of the Celestial Throne, the High Chancellor Varros listened to reports with narrowed eyes.
"An army, my lord. Black-armored, endless in number. They march under no banner, only darkness. Villages fall silent in their wake."
The council erupted in fear and argument. Some demanded they fortify the capital. Others urged sending envoys to seek mercy.
Varros, however, only tapped his staff against the marble floor. His gaze flicked toward the empty throne. The boy prince wanders temples and myths while the kingdom bleeds. Good.
His thin smile betrayed the truth: prophecy was not the only blade hanging over Aelion's head.
---
On the Road Beyond the Crypt
Aelion and Kealen emerged from the crypt into night air thick with mist. The stars above burned strangely bright, as though watching.
Kealen adjusted his sword, scanning the tree line. "The land feels restless. As if it knows what comes."
Aelion followed his gaze. "Then we cannot stay still. If the shadow marches, so must we. To temples, to gods, to whatever truth lies buried—we will find it. Or we will make it ourselves."
Kealen stepped closer, his voice a vow. "And I will cut down anything that dares stand between you and that truth."
For the first time that night, Aelion let himself smile—faint, weary, but real. "You would fight gods for me?"
Kealen's hand brushed against his, a fleeting spark in the dark. "I already have."
Above them, unseen, a comet streaked across the sky—blood-red against the stars. Both omen and promise.
The march of fates had begun.