The wind carried whispers now.
Not the voices of ghosts or hollowborn, but something stranger — older. It whispered in forgotten tongues as Kaelen and his companions left the Bleeding Vale behind. With the Crown of Vaelmyr secured, Kaelen bore the weight of five oaths. Five kingdoms. Five memories. And still, the path grew darker.
Their destination lay northeast, past the shattered peaks of the Ghyrden Spine, beyond the frost-split ridges and the salt plains that once fed three empires. There, the stories said, rested the lost kingdom of Cymrael — a realm untouched by time, sealed within its own secret.
Little remained of Cymrael in memory. It had vanished before the Sundering, its people retreating from the world as war devoured the continent. Some claimed it had sunk beneath the earth. Others said it had ascended — lifted into the sky by magic too great to endure.
But Lys knew better.
"There was a gate," she told them on the sixth day of travel. "An entrance carved into the bones of the earth. But you cannot find it. It must find you."
"And how do we get it to notice us?" Aelric asked, voice dry. "Offer it Kaelen's last nerve?"
They were halfway up the crags of Arhyn's Crown when the answer came.
The mist parted — not pushed by wind, but pulled away as if by unseen hands. Before them, the mountainside split open, revealing a stair that spiraled downward into shimmering dark. The stone gleamed — not wet, not polished — but alive, reflecting their faces like a rippling mirror.
"Goddess," Lys breathed. "It remembers."
"What is it?" Kaelen asked.
She turned to him, voice reverent. "The Labyrinth of Cymrael. It's opening."
Aelric frowned. "Labyrinths don't open. They trap you."
Lys gave him a tight smile. "Exactly."
They entered.
The descent swallowed sound. The further they went, the more the world behind them seemed to fade. Kaelen's boots echoed on the steps, but not his breath. His thoughts felt distant. The Ember grew warm — not with fire, but with anticipation.
When the stair ended, they found themselves in a vast hall of mirrored stone, columns rising like glass spires. Light came from nowhere and everywhere at once. Doors stretched in all directions — countless, each carved with a different sigil.
"Which way?" Aelric asked.
Kaelen didn't answer. He moved forward.
His reflection didn't follow.
Instead, in the mirrorstone, his reflection stood still — then smiled without him. Kaelen recoiled.
"Trick of the light," Aelric muttered.
"No," Lys said, pale. "This place tests more than strength. It tests truth. If you are false, it will know."
Aelric looked at the nearest door. "Then we're in trouble."
They stepped into the maze.
The first trial came quickly.
Kaelen was separated — the labyrinth shifting silently behind him. He stood alone in a corridor that bent in impossible directions, reflections showing versions of himself he did not recognize. One bore silver armor and a golden crown. Another was covered in blood. Another wore no face at all.
"Choose," whispered the air.
He turned, but the hallway bent again.
"Who are you?"
Kaelen clenched his fists. "I am Kaelen of Thornmere. Heir of Flame. Bearer of five crowns. I am what the world needs me to be."
Silence.
Then — laughter. His laughter.
The reflections stepped out of the walls.
They attacked.
Each Kaelen moved with his memories — one fought like the boy who first held the Ember, clumsy but desperate. Another fought like a king. The worst fought like a monster — brutal, without hesitation.
Kaelen bled.
But he did not break.
He called upon the Ember — not just its fire, but its memory — and lit the corridor in golden flame. The false selves burned, screaming not in pain, but in disappointment.
When the fire faded, Kaelen stood alone again.
The path opened.
Elsewhere, Aelric faced a room that whispered secrets he hadn't told anyone — not even himself. It showed him a child in chains. A sword he'd stolen. A face he couldn't save.
He laughed bitterly. "You think I'm not used to guilt?"
He walked through the chamber without hesitation.
Lys, too, was tested — shown a future where she ruled Iskaran, cold and cruel, her power twisted. She fell to her knees — but remembered Kaelen's hand on her shoulder. She rose. "Not this time," she said.
The trio reunited at the Labyrinth's heart — a chamber of still light, surrounded by mirrored waterfalls. In the center floated the Crown of Cymrael.
It was unlike the others.
Delicate. Almost too fragile to exist. A circlet of crystal and air, singing softly in a voice that could not be heard with ears. It pulsed not with power — but with clarity.
Kaelen stepped forward.
This time, no guardian rose. No trial appeared.
Only a single phrase carved in the floor beneath the crown:
"Know thyself, or perish."
He reached out.
The crown dissolved into light — and reformed upon his brow. A flash. A sound like silence cracking.
And then —
Kaelen remembered.
A thousand names.
A thousand faces.
The birth of the Nine.
The Sundering.
The truth of the Hollow King — not a man, not a tyrant, but a part of what was once whole. The wound that never closed. The mirror that broke.
He collapsed.
When he woke, Lys was holding him. Aelric stood watch, sword drawn, though there was no enemy.
"You were gone," Lys said. "In your mind."
Kaelen looked past her, eyes hollow. "I saw what we were. Before the crowns. Before the Ember. We weren't meant to be nine. We were meant to be one."
Aelric's jaw tightened. "Then the Hollow King—?"
Kaelen nodded.
"He's the part we cast out. The cost of power. The ghost of unity. And he's not just coming for us."
He looked down at his hands — now trembling slightly.
"He's coming to take us back."