The march toward the Ashen Coast began at first light.
The ground was hard, brittle from old magic. The wind carried a distant tang of salt and soot—a strange mix of sea air and ancient ruin. The Flameborn moved in silence, their numbers fewer but their resolve sharpened like tempered steel.
Althar rode at the front on a black destrier named Vraen, a horse bred for war and untouched by fear. The Seventh Crown shimmered faintly in his eyes, reacting to something on the horizon.
Behind him marched the survivors of the great battle.
Each one had earned a name.
Each one had chosen to follow.
But Althar's mind was not on the march.
It was on the scroll burned into memory.
The Crown of Storms has surfaced.In the hands of a woman claiming to be your daughter.
He had never known a daughter. Not in this life. But his previous incarnation, the Emperor of No Mercy, had ruled with many concubines, left countless bloodlines scattered across continents. Most had been erased. Some had tried to rise—and failed.
But if someone truly held the Crown of Storms…
That changed everything.
As night fell, they made camp near the Whispering Cliffs. The waves below crashed endlessly against the rocks, each one sounding like a whisper from the void.
Seris stirred a cauldron of glowing broth, her expression unreadable.
"It's not just her holding the crown," she finally said, glancing toward Althar. "Rumors say she awakened it."
Althar didn't respond.
"She commands the storm," Ariya added, sitting nearby. "Lightning bends to her will. They call her the Tempest Queen."
Rorek scoffed. "Sounds like she's looking to die young."
Seris shook her head. "She's rallied two warbands, taken three coastal keeps in under a week. No army behind her—just storms and belief. The locals follow her like a messiah."
Althar finally spoke, voice low.
"She's no queen."
He rose, walking to the cliff's edge, wind whipping his cloak.
"If she has my blood," he said, "then I owe it to her not to treat her like an enemy. Not yet."
Seris folded her arms. "And if she's like you were?"
"Then I stop her. No matter what."
The next day, the coast came into view.
They found the first village abandoned, rooftops torn off by lightning, trees split down the middle. Magic lingered in the air—wild, charged, and untamed.
Althar stepped into the ruins of a chapel. The sigil of the Storm Crown had been burned into the altar: a spiral of clouds, surrounded by falling blades.
"She's sending a message," Ariya muttered.
Rorek sniffed. "She's marking territory."
"No," Althar said. "She's declaring war."
At twilight, they reached Draeven Point, a craggy cliffside holdfast.
It was empty of defenders.
But the storm was waiting.
Dark clouds churned overhead, lightning flickering in angry arcs. The sea boiled. Rain hadn't yet fallen, but the pressure was suffocating—like the sky itself was watching.
And then…
She appeared.
A woman stepped onto the cliffs, backlit by lightning.
She was tall, armored in jagged silver streaked with cobalt veins. Her hair whipped in the wind like strands of ink. Her eyes glowed faint blue—stormlight—and above her head floated a crown of swirling thunderclouds, crackling with restrained fury.
She did not speak at first.
She simply stared at Althar.
Then, in a voice like thunder restrained:
"I am Kaelis of the Storm, daughter of the last true king. And I will not bow to a ghost of a tyrant."
The Flameborn braced, weapons drawn.
Althar raised a hand.
And stepped forward.
Their auras clashed instantly—his, like smoldering fire wrapped in sorrow. Hers, like a storm barely contained.
"You think I don't know what you are?" Kaelis spat. "You, who burned cities for loyalty? Who chained the sky with your will?"
"I remember," Althar said, calm. "And I paid for it in death."
"And now you wear a crown again," she sneered. "How noble."
"I don't seek a throne."
"Then why come here?"
Althar met her gaze.
"To see if you're what they claim. To see if there's hope for you… for what's coming."
Kaelis tilted her head. "You mean the Witch-Empress. Veyla. She sends her shadows, too. But I am no fool."
A long pause.
Then:
"I will not kneel. Not to you. Not to her. Not to anyone."
Lightning surged. The storm flared. The wind howled.
And still—Althar did not draw his blade.
"You don't need to kneel," he said. "But you do need to choose."
He took a slow breath.
"Stand with us. Or stand in our way."
Kaelis laughed, bitter and sharp.
"I'll stand on my own."
She turned, cloak snapping in the wind.
"But if you survive what's coming… then we'll speak again."
With a wave of her hand, lightning exploded between them—blinding, violent.
And she was gone.
Silence fell.
Only the sea remained, crashing below.
Seris approached, coughing from the smoke.
"Well," she said, "that could've gone worse."
Ariya watched the clouds with a frown. "She could be the strongest wielder of a Crown we've seen. And she's alone."
Rorek grunted. "I kind of like her."
Althar said nothing.
Because for the first time since his return…
He felt something stir in his chest.
Not rage. Not guilt.
Pride.
She didn't need his legacy.
She had made her own.
And somehow… that hurt more than hate.