The fires of war cast long shadows across Dovaryn, but none longer than the one Callan carried in his soul.
Lake Karest was behind them. Victory had come, but it carried a bitter taste. The blood spilled, the dead left behind, the scars reopening. And now, as the rebel army advanced toward the capital, every step forward drew Callan closer to the throne—and to the truth he'd spent a lifetime outrunning.
But it wasn't the Emperor who haunted him that night.
It was his past.
They found the knight's corpse beneath the ruins of an old chapel along the western road. The patrols said it had been gutted by a fallen star—some magical detonation that tore the roof away and left the bones of the earth exposed.
Callan walked through the debris, the cold wind biting through his cloak.
He found the armor first.
Silver plate, cracked but dignified. The sigil of the House of Orwyn carved across the chest, nearly obscured by dried blood. A shattered sword lay nearby, its blade scorched black.
Solenne knelt beside the body. "Do you know him?"
Callan didn't answer.
His hands clenched.
The knight's face was turned to the side, one eye still open in defiance. His features were gaunt, his lips cracked. Yet even in death, there was a quiet pride.
"Sir Dareth," Callan murmured. "He was one of mine. Before the fall."
"A loyalist?"
"No," Callan said, softer now. "A friend."
That night, Callan lit the pyre himself.
The flames danced, and with them came memory.
Dareth training beside him in the early days of the Empire's rise. Laughing after sparring sessions. Drinking stolen wine under siege walls. Speaking of dreams—of justice, before the world taught them how naive that word truly was.
Then the war.
Then the purge.
Then silence.
"I thought he was dead," Callan said, standing alone before the burning wood.
"He is now," said a voice behind him.
He turned to see Lysander, cloaked and grim. The healer had changed in recent weeks. Sharper eyes. Colder hands.
"There's more," Lysander said. "We found a journal on him. Encrypted. I broke it."
He handed over a leather-bound book, edges singed. Callan flipped through the pages. Names. Coordinates. Sigils.
And then—
A single sentence that made his breath stop.
"The Emperor's soul is broken. But the pieces still move."
Callan stared at the words.
"What does it mean?" Solenne asked, stepping forward.
"It means," Callan said, "he's not what we thought."
He turned away from the fire, gripping the journal tighter.
"It means we're not fighting a man."
The next morning, the army moved again. But Callan rode ahead of them, flanked only by Solenne, Lysander, and five of the elite.
He wasn't marching on Varranis yet.
He had another stop to make.
A cursed one.
They reached the Greywell Sanctum three days later.
A forgotten ruin lost in the northern gorges. It had once been a prison for sorcerers—sealed by divine wards, watched by no living eye.
Now, it was cracked open.
And something inside was still breathing.
Lysander hesitated as they stood at the entrance. "This place was shut for a reason."
Callan nodded. "That's why we're going in."
The stairwell inside spiraled downward, carved from obsidian and bone. They descended in silence, past faded wards and ancient runes.
At the bottom was a door. No lock. No handle. Just a surface of polished iron that reflected not faces—but fears.
Callan raised a hand.
The iron parted.
And the truth waited.
Inside sat a man—chained to a throne of roots and ash. His hair was long and silver. His skin pale and cracked. His eyes burned gold.
But it was his voice that froze the air.
"Callan," he whispered.
Callan stepped closer. "Elarion."
Solenne tensed. "Who is he?"
Callan's voice was quiet. "The Emperor's twin."
The chained man laughed—a dry, rattling sound.
"You're too late," he said. "You came to ask about the soul. You came to stop the machine. But it's already awake."
"What is he?" Callan asked. "The Emperor. What is he now?"
Elarion grinned with cracked lips. "Not a man. Not a god. Not even a demon."
"He's what's left."
The walls shook.
The throne of roots pulsed.
Chains rattled—and broke.
Elarion stood.
Golden eyes blazing.