The skies were burning.
Purple fire tore across the horizon, carving trails of light through what remained of Astraea's heavens. Cities collapsed in the distance, their towers turning to dust mid-fall. Once, this land was sacred—cradled by ancient Aether and watched over by stars. Now, it screamed.
Dævd ran through a corridor drenched in smoke and ruin, every breath cutting into his lungs like glass. Cracks split the crystalline floors of the Royal Spire, and firelight flickered off shattered mirrors that once reflected the lineage of kings.
He didn't care about any of it. Not now.
He had to reach the throne room.
Aether guards lay dead in the halls—some reduced to scorched bone, others branded with grotesque sigils etched into their chests. The Mark of Kael. It pulsed faintly, still glowing, as if laughing at the lives it had stolen.
Dævd turned away.
He couldn't let the rage take him. Not here. Not yet.
Focus. You're not a child anymore.
The crown prince's robe—once woven in white and silver—was torn, stained with blood and ash. Beneath it, his skin ached from half-healed burns. But none of it compared to the pain behind his eyes.
Because when Dævd looked at the dead, he didn't just see corpses. He saw every moment they ever lived. Every feeling they died with. And it all poured into him.
The King's Eyes were a gift. And a curse.
He reached the final gate to the throne room just as a tremor split the floor beneath his boots. A shockwave flared through the spire, rippling out from the heart of the palace.
And then—a voice.
Faint, familiar.
"Dævd!"
She was still alive.
He pushed the gate open with everything he had.
Inside, what remained of the throne room was barely standing. The great crystal tree above the royal seat had been cleaved in half, its glowing roots now dead. Pillars hung by threads of stone. Ash fell like snow.
And at the center stood Vaelrya, his sister.
Her long braided hair—half black, half silver was matted with sweat and blood. Her skin glowed faintly with Aetheric light. In her hands was the sacred blade Lucent Grave, still humming with power.
"I tried to hold him off," she said, her voice shaking. "But it's too late. Father is—"
"I know."
He didn't say how. Didn't say what he saw the moment the soul-flare pulsed from the spire minutes ago. He just stepped closer and looked down.
King Vaerion's body lay slumped at the base of the throne, a burnt hole where his heart used to be. Dævd fell to his knees. His hands trembled. Something inside him cracked.
You said we'd be safe if we stayed together…
Vaelrya looked away.
"He wanted the Eyes," she whispered. "And the sword. He took neither."
"Why?"
"Because he wants you alive, Dævd. He wants to take them by force."
A shudder crawled down Dævd's spine. Kael—his stepbrother. Half Aetherian, half Terrakai. A hybrid born of war and secrets. For years, Kael had been cold, distant… but loyal.
Until today.
Until he branded himself and became something else.
Lightning flashed outside the spire. The storm was collapsing in.
"He'll be here any second," Vaelrya said. "There's only one way left."
She turned to the blade.
"No—" Dævd stepped forward. "You can't."
"I have to."
Lucent Grave began to glow as she pressed the hilt against her chest. Runes spiraled upward along her arms. The blade trembled, singing in a voice only royalty could hear.
"This is our last bond. I'll fuse with the sword, with its soul. I'll keep it safe. I'll keep you safe."
"No—Vaelrya, please—" He moved to stop her, but she smiled. Not with peace. With finality.
"You're the last sovereign now. Live like it matters."
And then—
A flash of light.
A scream.
A soul dissolving into steel.
When it faded, she was gone.
Only the sword remained.
Lucent Grave hovered, suspended by unseen force, its blade engraved with storm-lit runes that hadn't existed before. Aether crackled in the air around it—raw, untamed.
Dævd reached for it.
And in that moment, he felt her presence in the hilt. Her voice echoed in the storm of his mind.
"Go. Survive."
The roof behind him exploded.
Stone rained down as a monstrous figure landed in the throne room, cloak of black flame rising behind him.
Kael.
Tall. Perfect. Terrifying. His left arm bore the full brand of conquest—twelve glowing marks along the flesh. And in his right hand, the air bent unnaturally, as if the world itself recoiled.
"Little brother," Kael said, stepping forward. "Still breathing?"
Dævd gripped the sword, lightning dancing across the steel.
"No thanks to you."
Kael's eyes shimmered. Not with hate. Not with fury.
But with hunger.
"The crown was never yours."
Just as Dævd was about to attack, a shadow steps between Kael and Dævd — tall, armored, battered.
His long, silver spear crackles with dying Aether. He's bruised but his resolve is unshakable.
"Your father's fire still lives in you," the man says. "And I swore I'd protect that fire until my last breath."
Orien's body bursts with Aether, energy surging around him.
Kael's eye narrows. "Orien… still clinging to ghosts?"
Orien chuckles grimly. "Some ghosts are worth dying for."
Orien (to Dævd): "The throne is lost, but the bloodline lives."
Orion turning his attention to Kael, his eyes fierce.
"RUN!"
Dævd uses his last Aether and vanishes in a burst of stormlight.
Then Orien lunges, unleashing one final assault against Kael to buy Dævd time.