They say the world changes slowly.
It doesn't.
It waits.
And then it shatters.
All at once.
It began with bells.
Again.
Not the bells of celebration. Not of mourning. Not of prayer.
These were different.
Not rung from the towers.
Rung from below.
From the palace foundation.
From the old bones.
It sounded like warning.
But no one moved.
Because no one recognized the sound.
Three days had passed since the feast.
Three days since Elarion smiled at me in front of everyone.
Three days since Kael marked the robe I didn't dare wear.
Three days since the mirror cracked for the second time.
I hadn't spoken.
I hadn't slept.
I'd just… waited.
For something I couldn't name.
And now it was here.
The halls were empty.
Not silent — not this time.
Voices. Running. Shouting.
Metal scraping stone.
Guards. Maids. Ministers.
Moving like ants in a flood.
The empire had taken the North Tower.
No one said it out loud.
But the Solharan banners were already rising behind the stained glass.
White suns over black seas.
Symbols of light.
Of conquest.
Of mercy that didn't ask for permission.
I wasn't summoned.
I wasn't locked away.
No one came for me.
I walked through the side corridors without being stopped.
No one looked at me.
They were too busy looking for Kael.
I found him in the Chapel of Saints.
Alone.
He stood before the altar, hands covered in ash.
The statue above him wept stone.
He was masked.
He didn't turn.
Didn't move.
But I knew he had felt me enter.
The silence acknowledged me before he did.
Then the chapel doors cracked.
A rush of air. A pressure drop. A scent — faint, but impossible to miss.
Jasmine. Salt. Firewood.
Light spilled into the chapel like judgment descending.
And Prince Elarion stepped through.
No guards.
No banners.
Just him.
All white and gold and quiet fury.
He walked like someone who had never been denied a single thing in his life — and never would be.
Every step rang in the bones beneath the floor.
He passed the saints. The altar. The black-scorched tiles Kael had melted once as a child.
His eyes were fixed forward.
Unblinking.
On Kael.
Kael didn't flinch.
He watched the prince cross the chapel floor, calm as ever.
And then he spoke — low, almost amused:
"They're here."
He reached up.
Slow.
Unshaking.
And removed his mask.
Not like unveiling a face.
Like drawing a sword.
His face was… still.
Not angry.
Not afraid.
Just cold.
Like he had stepped into the shape of something that had always been waiting to be worn.
His eyes glinted, but not with joy.
With knowledge.
As if he had seen how this would end before it even began.
"You don't need to do this," Elarion said.
Kael tilted his head, birdlike.
"Is that what you came to say?"
"I came to stop you," the prince replied.
"Then try."
The floor cracked beneath them.
It wasn't an attack.
Not yet.
It was the beginning of something older.
The chapel groaned. Dust drifted from the ceiling.
Runes carved into the stone three centuries ago began to glow.
Kael raised a hand.
The shadows followed like loyal dogs.
And then it began.
The first strike wasn't seen.
Only felt.
The air split in two. My vision blurred.
It was Kael's spell — soundless, cold, precise — slicing between the prince's feet and the altar.
Stone exploded.
The temperature dropped.
Elarion didn't retreat.
He stepped into the spell — let it wash around him — and raised two fingers.
A ring of gold light shattered the dark around him like glass.
Kael smiled.
No words.
Just pressure.
More sigils appeared in the air.
Not floating — burning.
They spun around Kael's wrists and throat like a crown made of flame.
The magic wasn't like before. It wasn't rage. It wasn't hunger.
It was structure.
Patterned madness.
He spoke then — one word.
A name, maybe. Or a curse.
And the chapel tilted.
My knees buckled.
Blood ran from my nose.
Kael had split the axis of the room.
Elarion countered with silence.
His light wasn't loud or bright or holy.
It was clean.
Uninterrupted.
He moved forward with both palms raised, whispering a prayer not meant for anyone to hear.
The stone healed beneath his steps.
The blood on the floor vanished.
Kael's brand — the one still smoking on the back wall — turned white-hot and faded.
Kael faltered.
Just once.
Just enough for his expression to shift from cruelty to disbelief.
He pressed his hand to the ground.
Whispered something ancient.
A circle of black spread from his palm.
Elarion stepped into it.
No fear.
No hesitation.
He let the darkness soak his boots, his robes, his throat—
Then lit up.
I had never seen light hurt something before.
But it did.
Kael screamed.
A real scream.
Ripped from somewhere beneath the skin.
Blood poured from his mouth.
His knees hit the floor.
But he wasn't done.
With one hand shaking, he dragged his finger through his own blood.
And wrote a rune no one should know.
I recognized the shape.
It was the one from the mirror.
The same rune that had glowed on my chest.
"No," Elarion said.
But it was too late.
Kael's magic burst.
It wasn't an attack.
It was a claim.
Everything in the room bent toward him.
Even me.
My knees collapsed.
I couldn't breathe.
My spine arched.
The seal inside my bones burned.
"Don't look at him," Kael whispered.
But I couldn't look away.
Elarion struck.
This time not with light.
With fire.
Pure. Sun-born. Laced with divine metal.
The air screamed.
Kael's body twisted.
But still — he didn't fall.
And then…
He laughed.
Not because he had won.
Because he knew he couldn't.
And still chose to burn.
The laughter turned into coughing.
Then into blood.
His legs gave out.
The black vines around him shattered.
The ceiling pulsed once.
Then silence.
Kael fell.
Not gracefully.
Not quietly.
He collapsed like a man who had finally broken everything he could — including himself.
Elarion stood over him.
Breathing heavy.
One hand bleeding.
The other glowing.
He said nothing.
Kael looked up at him.
Still smiling.
And then the empire came.
Guards. Priests. Chains.
The queen entered the throne room, screaming.
They didn't let her finish.
A blade cut through her throat like silk.
The king tried to run.
They didn't chase him.
They waited.
He slipped on the blood.
They caught him gently.
And dragged him by the crown.
Kael was still on the floor when they bound him.
They didn't touch him with their hands.
They used runes.
Light-forged chains.
No one dared speak.
Not even Elarion.
They dragged him past me.
He didn't look away.
Neither did I.
But this time…
He didn't smile.
"You should've run," Elarion said, finally.
Kael coughed.
Blood on his teeth.
"Where would I go?"
That night, they took him beneath the palace.
Not to the dungeons.
To a place older.
Carved from the bones of the First Saints.
Where magic didn't work.
Where light couldn't reach.
Where voices weren't allowed.
And me?
I stood in the garden.
Alone.
The robe I wore was still singed at the edges.
The seal in my bones was still pulsing.
And the world felt quieter.
Like something sacred had ended.
Or begun.
Kael was gone.
But the mark remained.
And in the silence where he once stood—
I began to hear something else.
A voice.
Not his.
Older.
Colder.
Whispering not my name…
But the one I hadn't yet chosen.