Power rarely dies.
It simply changes hands,
while the roots beneath the throne sharpen their blades.
The Grand Chamber of House Velron was not built for fear.
Its walls were crafted from imported marble, its ceiling etched with the constellations of the Old Empire, and its floor inlaid with obsidian and jade — a reminder that the Velrons stood above all.
But tonight, the chamber felt small.
And the nobles inside felt mortal.
"He wears the mask."
"The people kneel."
"You waited too long."
"No… we moved too slow.
The bickering grew louder. A dozen noble houses — their banners wrapped in gold and venom — each with their own interests, all with the same fear.
The fear of Ash Draven.
The one name the people now whispered like a prayer.
Seated at the head of the table was Lord Valric Velron, his silver hair unkempt, his eyes ringed with sleepless red. A bandage covered his chest where the burning sigil had appeared days before.
He'd tried to dismiss it as coincidence.
But each night since, the mark throbbed with pain. A reminder. A warning.
He rose from his seat.
"This is no longer a political matter. We face something older than rebellion."
"What we saw in the streets is not charisma. It's legacy — reawakened. We must treat it as such."
The room fell quiet.
Then a voice from the shadows answered.
"Then you already know what you must do."
The chamber's torches flickered.
And from behind a velvet curtain, a figure stepped forth — cloaked in tattered green silk, her face covered with a bone-white veil. Her hands glowed faintly blue.
Arch-Seer Maelen of the Eclipse Circle.
The nobles leaned back.
Even the most prideful among them did not meet her gaze.
"This is no revolution," she said, voice soft as snowfall. "This is an echo."
"A soul has returned — incomplete, uncertain, but dangerous. The last time one like him rose, the heavens cracked."
"You seek swords and soldiers. You think coin can buy silence. But he was not born of this age. He will not be stopped by its rules."
Valric stared at her.
"Then what would you suggest, seer?"
She extended her hand.
And in it, a scroll — sealed in black wax bearing the mark of a serpent devouring its own tail.
The nobles paled.
"No," muttered one. "You said it was buried."
"We all agreed—"
"That pact was forbidden!"
"It was locked away for a reason!"
Maelen's voice cut through them.
"And now that reason stands on your doorstep."
Valric took the scroll, hands trembling.
Inside was a name.
Not a man. Not a creature. Not even a curse.
A force.
A thing whispered only in the oldest books and burned from most records.
Vaeroth.
Far from Ravenmark, across dead plains and mist-choked forests, something stirred beneath a blackened hill.
A single bell rang — one not heard in centuries.
Chains rattled beneath stone.
And somewhere in the void between dreams and memory, a voice answered the call.
"Release me."
"And I will unmake him."
Back in Lowend, Ash stood at the edge of an alleyway, watching a mother teach her child to light a lantern with flint.
He held no weapons.
He wore no mask.
Just silence.
Kael joined him, wordless, then finally asked:
"You saw something, didn't you? When the Witness touched you."
Ash nodded.
"Not just who I was… but what I lost."
"What does that mean?"
Ash looked at the flame in the child's hands.
"There was someone beside me," he whispered. "Back then."
"She wasn't just my ally. She was my anchor."
"And she's not gone."
Kael blinked.
"She's still alive?"
Ash's voice was distant. Hollow with awe and dread.
"No."
"But something… wearing her memory… is waking up."