The storm rolled in before the dawn, smothering the peaks of Vereth Kal in violet mist and the quiet hum of brewing chaos. Thunder grumbled across the blackened sky, as though the heavens themselves sensed the fraying of oaths long thought unbreakable. Beneath the shroud of clouds, the city prepared for war—and none knew it more intimately than Caelan.
He stood alone on the balcony of the Whispering Spire, overlooking the lower tiers of the city. The war camps stretched like bruises across the outer wards. The fires of the rebels' advance lit up the horizon, their silhouettes flickering with a rage not unlike his own.
Behind him, the chamber of echoes stirred with voices not entirely mortal.
He had come here with a question.
But the answer had unraveled everything.
"The Severed Chain was never meant to be mended," whispered the First Thread. "You bear its burden, Caelan of the Ash. Will you accept its weight, or break beneath it?"
Caelan turned. The veil shimmered faintly before his eyes, the Eclipsed Veil bending to his will. The numbers flickered.
‹ Eclipsed Veil ›
Strength — 17 Willpower — 22 Perception — 20 Intelligence — 17 Charm — 6 Thread Control — 33 Resonance — 23 Resilience — 18
New Trait Gained: Shadowbind Memory — You may glimpse echoes trapped in threads of death.
New Entry: Oathbreaker's Chain — Linked to the First Heir. New Entry: Heir Conflict – Three of Seven active.
He breathed slowly. He had not yet told Elira. She still believed the First Thread was a guide, not a judge.
Outside, the winds rose. Steel clanged on stone far below. The siege was nearing. But the true war stirred elsewhere—beneath the skin of the world.
The door behind him creaked.
Elira stepped in, her hair pulled back, her armor half-clad in haste. She held a message scroll in one hand, eyes dark with worry.
"Another front has fallen," she said. "South Ridge. Betrayal from within."
Caelan turned his gaze back to the horizon. "How many died?"
"Too many." A pause. "They wore our crest. Our colors. Someone gave them the words."
He nodded slowly. "Then the traitor walks among us still."
Elira's silence said everything. They both knew trust had become a rare currency.
She stepped beside him. "What did the Veil show you?"
Caelan hesitated. His jaw tightened. "A chain broken long before I was born. The First Heir broke it. Lied to the world. Bound power to blood."
Elira stiffened. "And now you wear it."
"No," he said. "Now I shatter it."
Their gazes met. Between them, the city groaned under its own weight, caught in the grip of too many histories.
Far below, the fires flared brighter.
—
The council room within the Bastion's heart was thick with heat and breath. Nobles, generals, and emissaries from fractured provinces gathered in tight circles, some in armor, others in robes lined with crest-threaded silk. And in the center—marked only by the obsidian ring upon his hand—sat Lord Enwren, commander of the Sable Accord.
"He means to unmake the Accord itself," Enwren barked, slamming his gauntlet onto the stone table. "Do you not understand what that means? The Weave obeys order! Hierarchy! Without the Accord, the Weave answers only to chaos!"
Whispers flared, like embers to dry grass.
A voice cut through them. Cold, sharp, feminine.
"Perhaps the Weave seeks a new master."
Nyriel stepped forward from the shadows of the gallery, her silver mask gleaming, the blue-black robes of the Duskbind Temple flowing around her like smoke. She had not spoken since the Prophecy Fragment had been unveiled.
Now, all eyes fell to her.
"You saw what I saw," she continued. "The boy from the Ash broke the mirrorstone. His resonance shifted the prophecy itself. The Eclipse no longer centers on one. It spirals. Seven threads—twisting, colliding."
A priest near the back crossed himself. "Blasphemy. The prophecy was sealed."
"And unsealed," Nyriel replied. "By him."
Murmurs grew louder. Fear. Wonder. Dissent.
Lord Enwren rose, eyes burning. "We are the Heirless Court. We exist because none of the Seven can be trusted to rule alone."
Nyriel tilted her head. "Then perhaps we do not need a ruler. Only a reckoning."
Silence.
High above, on a balcony of stained light, a cloaked figure watched with interest. He held no banner. But in his hand, a chain glowed faintly—its links scorched at the edges.
—
Night fell like a blade.
In the Ashward barracks, Caelan knelt alone. The map before him was marked in blood and threadstone dust. He studied the lines, but his mind drifted.
The traitor. The prophecy. The others.
Three of Seven active.
Who were they?
He touched the center of the map. A spiral of points—Eclipse-born.
He would need to find them. Before they found each other. Before they chose sides.
Footsteps approached. He rose.
Elira entered again, her eyes shadowed. "The traitor's letter was found. It names a location. North—beyond the Weave-dead forests. They're meeting someone. Someone who knows what the First Heir hid."
Caelan's heart quickened. "Then we ride at dawn."
Elira nodded, but her voice faltered. "There's something else. A name in the letter."
"Whose?"
She swallowed. "Aryn."
His blood ran cold.
That was his mother's name.
The room fell silent.
In that stillness, a chain shattered.