The halls of the Midnight Palace were carved from obsidian and sealed with soulglass. No footsteps echoed within—only the hush of deathless breath, as if the walls themselves dared not disturb the stillness.
At the center, the Empress stood before a mirror of dark water.
No reflection showed.
Only ripples. Secrets.
She spoke softly, each word threaded with ancient command.
"The mind-weaver failed. The Crown-Bearer resists corruption. That means he must be unmade… not persuaded."
From the blackness behind her, a figure stepped forward.
A tall silhouette, robed in layered veils of dusk.
No face. No voice. Not even a name spoken aloud.
Only a title etched in spell-silence:The Heir of Silence.
The Empress did not turn.
"You will go to him. You will erase his flame."
The figure knelt.
No reply. Not even in thought.
Only compliance.
Then it vanished, shadows folding like breath drawn from a corpse.
Crimson Hollow
Althar's command chamber had changed.
The tapestries were gone. The sigils of his reign now shared space with crude maps, blood-marked lists of traitors, and relics from dead enemies. His throne remained empty.
He didn't sit anymore.
Seris was the first to speak.
"The weaver's death sparked fear across three provinces. Sect members are going underground. If we push now, we can collapse the local cells."
Ariya added, "But we'll stretch ourselves thin. The Empress might be baiting us—divide and crush."
Althar stood at the window, arms crossed, eyes like dark iron.
"Let her try. Every time she sends one of her monsters, I grow stronger."
He didn't know it, but at that very moment, the Heir of Silence was already in the outer walls—unseen, unfelt.
Watching.
Waiting.
That night, the dreams returned.
Althar saw flame again—not his, but hers.
The Empress standing atop a mountain of ash, surrounded by children bound in golden chains.
And Kaelis… his daughter, standing beside her, silent and smiling.
When he woke, his chest ached.
He didn't know what emotion it was.
The next day, they began the purge of the Broken Ring, a known cult outpost buried within the cliffs of Ravenscar. The Flameborn marched under false banners to draw the enemy into the open.
Althar led from the front, blade drawn, voice sharp.
At first, the battle went well. The cultists broke faster than expected.
Too fast.
Seris hissed, "Something's wrong. They're not resisting."
Then it began.
A scream.
Not from the enemy. From their own side.
One of the Flameborn—Relen—suddenly went silent mid-chant. Then he dropped his weapon, turned to the others, and stabbed himself in the neck.
Blood sprayed across the stone.
Then another fell. And another.
No cries. Just silence.
Althar spun, eyes narrowed. "Show yourself."
The shadows behind the cliff rippled.
And he stepped out.
The Heir of Silence.
There was no aura.
No magic Althar could sense.
Only stillness. A pressure in the mind, like someone whispering just out of reach.
The Heir raised a single hand.
Seris collapsed.
Not unconscious—empty. Her mind wiped blank, expression vacant.
Ariya screamed her name, rushing forward, only for her voice to vanish halfway through the sound.
Althar reached out—and even thoughts began to flee from him.
He's unraveling us… without touching us.
Then the Heir moved.
One moment at a distance.
The next, blade at Althar's heart.
But Althar was faster this time.
Not physically—willfully.
He refused the silence.
Flame surged from within his chest, not from anger or power, but something deeper.
Memory.
He thought of Kaelis's glare. Ariya's laughter. Seris's grumbling. Braeg's loyalty. Even the guilt that haunted him.
Emotion.
That was his shield.
The blade stopped inches from his skin—melted by flame now tinged with silver.
The Heir didn't recoil.
Instead, it tilted its head.
A question unspoken.
Then it struck again.
The duel lasted seconds—but felt like eternity.
Each strike carved silence through the air. Althar met them with fire, his blade burning brighter than ever before.
Every time the Heir touched him, he felt a piece of himself being peeled away—regret, fear, confusion.
But not hope.
Never that.
With a final surge of will, Althar caught the assassin's blade, twisted it, and drove Vorthal through its chest.
No scream.
Only light.
The Heir crumbled into dust, the silence unraveling like torn silk.
The other Flameborn gasped as sound returned. Seris blinked, memory rushing back. Ariya dropped to her knees, shaking.
Althar stood alone, smoke curling from his fingertips.
"Another one falls," he said quietly. "But how many more wait behind her veil?"
Far away, the Empress looked into her pool and smiled.
"He grows… dangerous."
"Perfect."