The war drums had stopped.
Didn't matter. Velmora was still bleeding.
Ash stuck to everything. The rooftops, the cracked bones of statues, old banners no one cared about anymore. They hung limp, soaked through and rotting. Aetherholt used to shine—now it felt like a corpse no one had buried properly. The streets, once cobbled in white stone, were a mess of gray sludge and broken memories. Every building seemed smaller now. Broken. Hollowed out.
The sky was no better. Just this solid, unblinking lid of cloud. Heavy. Gray. Leaking a slow, cold drizzle that turned streets into muck and made your boots feel twice as heavy. The wind didn't move much anymore. When it did, it brought the stink of fire and iron—like the war was still somewhere nearby, just waiting.
Inside the keep, it was worse. Not colder—just... emptier. Like the walls remembered too much. The great hall had once been loud, full of steel and fire and people who still believed in something. Now? The fire in the hearth sputtered like it didn't want to be there. Shadows stretched long on the walls, like they were waiting for something. Or someone. Nothing felt still, not really. Just wrong. The kind of wrong that sinks into the stones and stays there.
Aric stood over the war table. The map spread out under his hands was stained, torn in places, and the red ink used to mark fallen cities had started to run. His fingers pressed into the edges like he was trying to hold it all in place through sheer force. The skin on his hands was cracked and raw, nails dark with old blood and dirt. His armor hung from his shoulders like it had lost its shape.
He hadn't slept. Not properly. Not in a while. The circles under his eyes had gone from shadows to bruises. His beard had grown out uneven, coarse against the hollow of his cheeks.
Footsteps. Quiet ones.
"You heard?" he said, without turning.
"I did."
Seraphina. Queen. Wife. And more than that. She stood in the doorway a moment longer than needed, as if deciding whether to enter a room or a grave.
"Eldor's lost," Aric muttered. "They bent the knee."
"To the Riven Lords," she said. No surprise in her voice. No anger, either. Just a tired kind of knowing.
She moved beside him. Not dramatic. Just there. Her eyes scanned the map, like she could change something if she stared hard enough. One hand sat on her belly. Not soft or gentle—just there. Seven months now? Maybe more. Her skin had gone pale lately. Eyes still sharp, but quieter somehow. Like she'd used up all her fury already. Her breathing was shallow, but steady. Each inhale a quiet fight.
"Can this still be stopped?" he asked.
She didn't even blink. "No. We survive it. Or we don't."
Outside, thunder rolled. The rain picked up. A drop splattered against the high glass above them, and then another. Then dozens. The storm was waking up again.
That night, they went where they'd promised never to go again.
The Old Cathedral.
Its gates didn't open easy. They groaned and shrieked, like metal that remembered pain. The sound echoed too long. When they forced them open, the air that came out stank. Like rot. Wet stone. And something older—like bad memory. Like betrayal that had curdled in the dark.
Neither of them spoke as they stepped inside.
Down the stairwell, the dark got thicker. The deeper they went, the heavier the air became. It pressed in around them—on their skin, in their mouths. Damp, warm, and wrong. It didn't feel empty. It felt like something was watching.
They reached the altar.
It wasn't holy. Just stone. Cracked. Ugly. Silver veins ran through it, glowing faint like something asleep. Waiting.
Seraphina laid out a cloth. An old one. Embroidered with something older than crowns. Her hands didn't shake.
She spoke. Not a prayer. Something else. Something remembered.
Aric drew his blade and cut deep into his palm. Blood hit the stone. That part felt easy. The blood hissed faintly as it touched the stone.
The veins brightened. A pale blue flame lifted up—thin as smoke. It hovered.
Then it moved. Wrapped around his wrist like a question.
Will you?
He didn't look at her.
"Yes."
The flame leapt into his chest.
He choked. Just once. Then breathed again.
When he opened his eyes, they weren't the same. Brighter. Sharper. Distant.
Something had changed. Quiet. Final.
After that, the war turned.
The enemy began to fall back. The Velmoran line didn't break again. Soldiers marched harder. Struck deeper. Arrows missed them more often than not. Fog rolled in before battles. Covered them. Trees bent to clear their path. Rivers slowed. Horses didn't spook.
People whispered.
They said the king had changed. That fire didn't touch him anymore. That he didn't flinch.
But under the whispers was something colder. A feeling. That whatever helped them—it wanted something back.
Seraphina's pregnancy got worse.
Too much movement. Bruising. Restless. She didn't sleep. Barely ate. The midwives whispered behind closed doors.
She told no one about the voices.
They came when she closed her eyes. Faint. Familiar. Her mother's voice. Sometimes Aric's. But twisted, like someone else was wearing their skin.
One night, she wandered out into the garden barefoot. The stones bit her feet. She looked up at the sky. No stars. Just cloud.
"What are you?" she asked.
Nothing answered.
But warmth bloomed under her ribs. Deep. Hot. Too alive.
She cried. Quietly. Not from fear. From knowing.
The child inside her wasn't just hers anymore.
Then came the Veil Eclipse.
No stars. No wind. Just silence. Like the whole world was holding its breath.
Seraphina screamed. Midwives rushed.
Alaric came first. Red-faced. Alive. Crying.
Then Kael.
He didn't cry.
He stared.
Runes shimmered along his back. Briefly. Then faded like breath on glass.
Everyone stepped back.
Seraphina held both boys. Her voice was raw.
"My sons," she whispered. "Born of me. Claimed by something I don't understand."
Lightning cracked the sky.
Far below, the altar pulsed.
Kael blinked.
And all the torches flickered.
The prophecy hadn't been spoken.
But it had already begun.