A storm was gathering above the capital.
Not of rain or lightning—but of whispers, parchment, and knives.
The Grand Assembly Hall had not held a full Court in nearly six years. Not since the death of the last High King, when the throne went cold and the crown was locked behind a dozen wards. But now, nobles from every corner of the realm filed into the stone coliseum, draped in silks, sigils, and suspicion.
Their murmurs clung to the high-arched walls like mildew.
Caelan had taken Thornehold.
Not with an army, but a handful of misfits. And then unleashed a magic not seen since the Age of Fire.
They called it the Ashwake.
Lady Marris of House Duskvale spoke first.
"If he is one of the Seven... then why wasn't he named? We swore oaths. The bloodlines were sealed."
Lord Halrix, draped in crimson and bone, sneered. "The Eclipse prophecy never said the heirs would all be noble."
"The prophecy was fractured," said Arch-Seer Velien. "Three verses are missing. Burned during the Hollow Rebellion."
"Convenient," Lord Halrix muttered.
Arch-Seer Velien ignored him. She raised a trembling hand and read from the parchment she held—a scrap faded and torn, its ink preserved by arcane salt.
When black ash rises from a throne of no blood,The moon shall split and name him son.Not born, but claimed by fire and storm.The Heirless King, whose crown is war.
Silence fell.
Then chaos.
"Heirless King? That means nothing!"
"The boy's a bastard with luck and tricks."
"He killed Thornehold's lord—you think he'll stop there?"
"He has Weave-blood. And the Ashweave answers him. That is no trick."
The Council Speaker slammed his staff once.
"Enough."
The room settled, though tension coiled tighter. Some were pale. Others, calculating.
And in a shadowed alcove above, hidden behind an illusion veil, another watched.
The Third Heir.
Their name was whispered in cults and curses: Nyriel of the Hollow Mask.
Neither man nor woman. Raised in the Black Choir. Shunned even by the Seers.
Nyriel leaned forward, watching the nobles squabble.
Their voice did not echo—yet the Court heard it all the same, carried by the Weave like a thread tugging silk.
"They fear a boy who bleeds ash," Nyriel murmured. "But they forget the truth of the Eclipse. It does not birth unity. It births war."
Behind Nyriel, a servant knelt—not truly human. Its skin was paper-pale, stitched with ink. An Inkbound Homunculus.
"Do we move, Sovereign?" it whispered.
"Not yet," said Nyriel. "Let the Heirless King stir the hive. The swarm will reveal its own traitors."
They turned, eyes gleaming through the mask.
"Then we strike."
Back within the Grand Assembly, Lord Malrick rose.
"We must send an Inquisition. A sanctioned Weavebinders' squadron. Root him out before his power spreads."
"And if he is an Heir?" Lady Marris asked.
"Then we cage him. Bind him. Keep him like we did with the Mad Prophet."
Arch-Seer Velien shook her head.
"He will not be caged. Not now. Not after this."
She turned, gaze distant.
"You saw what he did to Thornehold. That was not spellwork. That was dominion."
A rustle swept the chamber. Dominion. A term older than the Crown. Older than magic. It spoke of raw sovereignty, the right to command the world by will alone.
"The Veil stirs," Velien said. "And with it, so do the old laws."
A silence fell again, deeper this time. A silence of fear.
Lord Halrix broke it with a scoff. "Then let him come. Let him try to claim a throne built on fire. We'll drown him before he touches the gates."
Outside the court, ravens flew.
Six black-feathered messengers, bearing seals cracked with heat.
One flew south, toward the coast and a warlord with chains for a crown.
One flew east, into the Mistlands, where a girl with silver eyes studied the stars.
One flew west, where the Iron Monks whispered of a boy who dreamed of death.
And one flew north, where Caelan stood amidst ash and ruin, unaware of the eyes now fixed upon him.
The other two flew to places unmarked, unwatched.
But their messages would arrive all the same.
The world was waking.
The heirs were moving.
And the Court?
The Court had no king.
Not anymore.
Only monsters.
And only one of them would survive the coming eclipse.