Kael fell through layers of reality.
Each one tore at him—fire, ice, void, and something worse. Memories that weren't his flooded his mind in violent bursts: a throne room drenched in blood, a king's severed head rolling across marble, and Falshaar's laughter echoing through the carnage.
Then, silence.
Kael slammed into solid ground. The impact should've shattered every bone in his body, but instead, the marble cracked beneath him like thin ice. He lay there, gasping, staring up at a ceiling that pulsed with veins of crimson light.
"Welcome to the Hollow Court," Falshaar said, his voice tinged with dark amusement. "Try not to embarrass us both."
Kael pushed himself to his feet, every muscle screaming. The hall around him was vast—pillars of black crystal stretched hundreds of feet high, their surfaces reflecting twisted versions of his new form. At the far end, seven thrones sat arranged in a semicircle, each one carved from a different material that seemed to breathe.
Six of them were occupied.
The figures on the thrones weren't looking at him—they were dissecting him with their gazes. Kael felt their attention like physical weight, crushing down on his shoulders, testing his spine.
"Straighten up," Falshaar snapped. "Show weakness here, and they'll tear you apart before you can blink."
Kael forced his back straight, meeting their stares with what he hoped passed for confidence.
The figure on the leftmost throne spoke first. Its voice was like wind through dead trees—soft, but carrying the promise of storms.
"Falshaar. You stand accused of regicide. The Ark-Lord of Ruin lies dead by your hand." The figure leaned forward, and Kael glimpsed what might've been a face beneath flowing silver hair. "Speak. Why should we not erase you from existence?"
Kael's mouth went dry. "I—"
"Careful," Falshaar warned. "That's Zephiron, the Wind King. Every word you speak here carries weight. Lie, and they'll know. Show fear, and they'll exploit it."
Kael swallowed. "The Ark-Lord of Ruin was corrupt."
The hall went deathly silent.
A figure on the third throne—massive, armored in what looked like solidified darkness—let out a sound that might've been laughter. "Corrupt? You dare judge an Ark-Lord, Falshaar? You, who've broken more oaths than most Jinn speak in a lifetime?"
"That's Malakor, the Shadow King," Falshaar supplied. "Brutal. Honorable in his own twisted way. He respected strength."
Kael steadied himself. "He was selling Abyssal Threads to the human world. Tearing holes between realms for profit."
That got a reaction.
Several of the kings shifted. One—a female figure wreathed in mirrors that reflected nothing—tilted her head with sharp interest.
"Asharah," Falshaar breathed. "The Queen of Mirrors. Be very, very careful with her."
Asharah's voice was crystalline, each word cutting. "Interesting. You claim the Ark-Lord was trafficking in Threads? That's a bold accusation, little oath-breaker. Do you have proof?"
Kael felt Falshaar's presence stir in his mind, and suddenly, knowledge flooded him—images, locations, names. A warehouse on the border of the Ruin Kingdom. Ledgers written in blood-ink. Human corpses drained of life to fuel the tears in reality.
"The Scarred Warehouse," Kael said, his voice gaining strength. "Three miles north of the Ashfall Gates. Inside, you'll find ledgers detailing every transaction. Seventeen human deaths. Four breaches in the Veil."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Then, the smallest figure spoke—a child sitting on a throne of jagged iron. His voice was high, innocent, and absolutely terrifying.
"Father did say Uncle was getting careless."
Kael's blood froze.
"That," Falshaar said quietly, "is the Abyssal Prince. The Ark-Lord of Ruin's son. He's twelve. He's also killed more Jinn than some kings."
The boy smiled—a bright, cheerful expression that didn't reach his pitch-black eyes. "Tell me, Falshaar. When you cut off my father's head, did he scream? Or did he die with dignity?"
Kael's mind raced. This was a trap—any answer could be fatal.
"He fought to the last breath," Kael said carefully. "He was a warrior."
The Abyssal Prince's smile widened. "Good. I would've been disappointed otherwise." He looked to the other kings. "I vote we let him live. For now."
"You vote?" Zephiron's tone was incredulous. "Child, you have no—"
"I am the Ark-Lord of Ruin now," the boy interrupted, his voice suddenly cold and ancient. "My father's throne is mine by blood and conquest. Unless one of you wishes to challenge my claim?"
No one spoke.
Asharah laughed—a sound like breaking glass. "How delightful. Very well, little prince. I, too, vote for mercy. Falshaar's actions, while... unorthodox, may have exposed a rot we should've seen."
Malakor grunted. "The human-touched has spine. I'll allow him to keep breathing."
One by one, the kings gave their verdicts. Some reluctant, some amused, but all—for now—leaning toward life.
Zephiron was the last. "Falshaar. You will be watched. Closely. One more broken oath, one more dead king, and I will personally deliver your head to the Abyss. Am I understood?"
Kael bowed his head. "Understood."
"Then go. You're dismissed."
The ground beneath Kael's feet began to crack. He had just enough time to see the Abyssal Prince wave cheerfully before reality twisted and he was falling again.
---
He crashed into water.
Cold, black, and deep. Kael thrashed, lungs burning, clawing toward what he hoped was up. His head broke the surface, and he gasped, treading water in the middle of a lake that stretched to the horizon.
"Not bad," Falshaar admitted. "You didn't get us killed. That's... actually impressive."
"Where are we?" Kael panted, swimming toward a distant shore.
"The Mirrorlands. Asharah's domain. She must've diverted our exit." Falshaar paused. "Which means she wants to talk."
Kael's feet found sand. He dragged himself onto the beach, collapsing on his back, chest heaving.
"Why?" he managed. "Why would she—"
A figure materialized above him.
Asharah stood there, her form shifting between reflections—young, old, beautiful, terrifying. All at once and none at all. Her eyes, when they settled, were fractured prisms.
"Because, Kael Ardent," she said, speaking his real name with deliberate precision, "I know what you are. And more importantly, I know what you will become."
She crouched down, one finger lifting his chin so their eyes met.
"The body you wear belongs to an oath-breaker and a kingslayer. But you—you're something far more dangerous."
Kael's voice was barely a whisper. "What am I?"
Asharah smiled—a genuine expression that somehow made her more terrifying.
"A variable. A piece that doesn't belong on the board. And that, sweet human, makes you either our salvation..."
She leaned closer, her breath cold against his ear.
"...or the end of everything."
The world shattered into mirror fragments.
When Kael's vision cleared, he was alone on the beach, staring at his reflection in the still water.
But the reflection wasn't looking back at him.
It was smiling.