The sun rose weak and colorless over the battlefield at Gravemire, its pale light glinting on broken blades and frozen bones. Kael Valari stood at the edge of the ruin, smoke still curling from the embers of last night's fire. The world felt thinner here, as though the veil between life and death had begun to tear.
Varethul the Hollow was no longer a whispered myth.
He had revealed himself.
And Kael had survived.
But questions burned hotter than answers, and Kael knew the time had come to confront them—starting with the truth of his own blood.
The Return to Draganholt
Three weeks passed before Kael, Elyria, and Thrain returned to the human capital. Their path took them through storm-lashed coasts, goblin-haunted woods, and the shattered trade roads of the old world.
Word had already reached the High King.
The Hollow King walked once more.
Kael was summoned the night he returned.
He entered the war chamber of High King Varric Dragan not as a bastard—but as a fireborn returned from death.
The chamber was dim, lit by braziers burning low and red. Maps covered the war table. Advisors whispered at the edges, and Cedric Arren stood near the wall, face tight.
Varric stood alone at the head of the room, dressed not in royal garb—but in the black-and-gold armor of the old kings of flame.
"You met him," Varric said.
Kael nodded.
"He offered you allegiance?"
Kael stepped forward. "He offered me truth."
"And did you believe him?"
Kael's voice was steady. "I don't know what to believe. That's why I'm here."
Varric's jaw clenched. "You want answers."
"I want the truth."
The king walked to a chest bound in iron. He unlocked it with a key from around his neck and pulled forth a scroll wrapped in red velvet.
He tossed it to Kael.
"Then read it. And know what you are."
The Mother and the Mask
Kael sat alone in his chambers that night, Elyria seated quietly beside him. The scroll felt impossibly heavy in his hands.
He unrolled it slowly.
It was a birth writ. Old, sealed in the wax of a house long thought extinct: House Vaelwyn.
His mother, it read, was Serenya Vaelwyn — last of her line. His father... was not named.
Kael blinked, then found a second page tucked behind the first.
It was a letter, addressed in delicate script.
My son,If you are reading this, then they have told you what I could not. You were born beneath a bleeding moon, beneath a sky where stars wept for the old kings.Your father was not a man of this age. He bore fire in his veins. Not magic—but blood. True, ancient blood that burns in silence and binds with death itself.You are the last of two great lines, Kael. One that ruled with wisdom. One that destroyed with flame.You must become more than either.Find the relics. The flame is the key.And whatever you do—do not trust Varric.
Kael stared at the page until the words stopped making sense.
Elyria touched his hand gently. "What does it mean?"
"It means I don't know who I am," Kael whispered. "And the only man who does... might be lying to me."
The Queen's Confession
Kael sought out the Queen Dowager—Lady Myranda, once consort to Kael's foster father and wife to Varric. She was a woman long considered a ghost of the court: elegant, dangerous, and full of secrets.
She met him in the winter gardens, where thorned roses bloomed despite the season, fed by flame runes buried in the soil.
"You remind me of her," she said.
"My mother?"
She nodded. "Serenya was the last light of her house. Varric was obsessed with her. Obsessed with her bloodline."
Kael swallowed. "Was he…?"
"Your father?" Her voice was cold steel. "No. But he wanted to be."
Kael's stomach twisted.
"Then who—?"
Lady Myranda leaned close.
"Ask him about the Sword of Emberfall. Ask him why it was taken from the vaults the night you were born."
Kael narrowed his eyes. "What is it?"
"A relic of fire," she said. "The first blade. And once—your birthright."
The Vault of Kings
That night, Kael broke into the royal vault beneath Draganholt.
Elyria came with him, silent as shadow.
The vault was guarded by magic and steel—runes that lit up at Kael's touch. They passed suits of armor from forgotten wars, tomes bound in dragonskin, the skeletal remains of fallen champions still in their armor.
But what Kael sought was not there.
The pedestal where the Sword of Emberfall once lay was empty.
Elyria ran her fingers along the dustless stone. "Recently taken."
Kael turned to a nearby shelf of scrolls. He unraveled one.
It was a manifest.
Varric Dragan—two months ago—had ordered the sword moved.
Destination: Ashmere Keep.
Kael's blood ran cold.
Ashmere Keep was north.
Past Gravemire.
Straight into the Hollow King's rising domain.
The Prince of Ashmere
The next morning, Kael confronted Varric in the throne room.
"You lied to me," he said.
The courtiers gasped.
Varric dismissed them with a wave.
"What do you believe I've lied about?"
"The sword. My mother. My birth."
"You are the Chosen One," Varric said. "That is all that matters."
"No," Kael said. "I am not your weapon."
Varric stepped forward. "Then what are you?"
Kael stared into the king's eyes.
"I'm your heir."
Silence.
Then Varric laughed.
"You think you are the first to believe that prophecy makes you king? You are fire, Kael—but even fire can be snuffed."
He turned away.
"Go north," he said. "Find the sword. Find your truth. Then decide which throne you want."
Oaths in the Dark
That night, Kael met Elyria beneath the old gods' tree in the heart of the city.
"I need to go north," he said.
She nodded. "Then I will come with you."
Kael's brow furrowed. "If you go, your people may disown you."
"I do not care," she said. "I have followed prophecy my whole life. Now I will follow you."
He stepped closer. "This path... it may end in fire."
Her eyes burned gold. "Then let us burn together."
Their lips met beneath the winter boughs, bound by flame, by fate, and by a love no kingdom would forgive.
The Hollow Marches
Far across the continent, in the frozen wastes of Vaer-Khol, Varethul the Hollow knelt before a pool of ice.
Reflected in its surface were not stars—but memories.
A woman screaming as she gave birth.
A child wrapped in flame.
A sword with no master.
Varethul's voice echoed through the frost.
"The second piece has moved.The Emberborn awakens.And now… let the war begin."