Narrated by veyren
We returned in victory.
And the world met us like legends.
The gates of Aetherion opened at noon, and sunlight poured down upon the cracked road like a blessing from the gods. Flowers rained from rooftops. Children ran barefoot beside the caravan, waving flags of green and gold. Old men wept. Women sang. The air smelled of roasted almonds and incense.
It was not a celebration of survival.
It was a celebration of salvation.
We had returned with the war behind us.
Or so they believed.
Our banners, torn and frayed from the long road, fluttered over the crowd. Ruzakai grunted every time someone tried to hand him flowers. Caelith rode silent and straight, a tower in motion. Nyavell walked beside me, her hood half-lowered, face unreadable but even she didn't turn away from the songs.
I let it happen.
I smiled. I waved. I accepted the cheers.
It was what they needed.
But as we passed beneath the final arch into the Garden Castle, I heard it again.
The pulsing.
The Jewel.
The Scale.
Inside the sealed container.
Still beating.
And louder.
"It's stronger now," Nyavell whispered. "It knows it's closer."
"Closer to what?" I asked
She didn't answer.
We entered the throne hall just before sundown. Light poured through the high glass like liquid fire. My uncle, the King, sat upon the Lion Throne, draped in robes of pearl and deep green. Age had touched his beard, but not his eyes. My mother's brother still burned bright.
He rose before we reached the steps.
He came to us not as a ruler, but as a man.
"Veyren, nephew of my house," he said, pulling me into an embrace. "You've done what even my dreams did not dare."
Then he turned to the others.
He took Caelith's hand and pressed it to his heart.
He met Nyavell's eyes and nodded. She nodded back.
He clapped Ruzakai on the shoulder. Ruzakai tried, and failed, not to flinch.
Then he saw Auren.
And the room changed.
The air thickened. Smiles faded, just slightly.
Guards shifted. Hands moved toward hilts.
Nobles averted their eyes.
Because no matter how calmly he stood…
He was unmistakably Tenshyrian.
The pale skin. The silver-black hair. The near-white eyes.
The robes etched with sigils not seen since the First Era.
"This one?" the King asked. Voice low now. Measured. No longer for the crowd.
"He met us on the road," I replied. "The Jewel called him."
"And you brought him here?"
"He did not come to fight."
"They never do... until they do."
Auren stepped forward not past the guards, but just enough to be seen.
He bowed. Not deeply, but properly. Precisely.
"Auren Nocthyr," he said. "Blood of Zybaah. I come unbound. I come by the Scale's call."
Silence.
Somewhere far beneath the palace, a bell rang.
Or maybe it was just the Jewel.
The Tension Beneath
That night, the city feasted.
Meat. Music. Laughter. The people sang into the dark.
But beneath the Great Hall, a council was called.
Scholars. Priests. War generals. Blood-seers.
The King's most trusted eyes.
Auren was not invited. He remained in a high tower chamber guarded, but not imprisoned.
Nyavell stood beside me. So did Caelith.
Ruzakai remained near Auren. By choice.
"The Jewel hasn't stopped pulsing," I said. "Not since we crossed into the city."
"The walls hum," Nyavell added. "Like thunder behind marble."
"He cannot be allowed to remain," a priest warned.
"He cannot be allowed to leave," a general replied.
The King stared into the flame of a tall candle, saying nothing.
"He is not our enemy," I said. "But I fear he is the beginning of something larger."
"He is the echo," Nyavell murmured. "Of something that hasn't arrived yet."
The chamber wasn't large.
But the voices inside thundered like storm winds.
I listened from my seat beside the King.
Measured. Waiting. Watching.
Words became weapons. Fear found its tongue.
Because fear always speaks loudest when it does not understand.
"He bears the markings of the Fallen!"
"His presence disturbs the Scale it hasn't stopped pulsing!"
"He is the last Nocthyr! That name should be ash!"
"We should not say that name!"
"Why not?" an elder snapped. "Zybaah turned the skies red! Led the first Fallen through the Rift! That boy walks in his image!"
"He is not Zybaah."
"No. He's worse. Because he walks among us as if he belongs."
The King remained silent.
Then Lord Themar, ancient, iron-eyed, a man who had buried five sons stood and slammed his fist on the table.
"Kill the son of Zybaah!" he roared. "Doom follows black wings!"
Silence.
No one corrected him.
Because they remembered, too.
The tales.
The fire.
The sky full of falling stars.
The King raised a hand. The murmurs died.
"We will not kill a boy who has drawn no sword," he said. "You would have me become what I feared?"
"We must act," a bishop whispered.
The council teetered on the edge of chaos.
The Seer Arrives
Then… the doors opened.
And silence fell.
She entered like a shadow in starlight.
Robed in black and gold.
Staff in hand.
Eyes veiled, yet piercing.
Serai the Seer.
Warden of forgotten temples.
Oracle of the Circle Flame.
The woman who had outlived two kings and foretold the fall of three empires.
She walked to the table and placed her hand on its center.
"Summon the boy," she said.
"What?"
"Why?"
"Summon him," she repeated. "This vision belongs to him as much as to you."
The King gestured. A guard exited swiftly.
We waited.
The Scale pulsed beneath us.
Then Auren entered.
Unchained. Unflinching.
His presence disturbed the air. Quietly. Completely.
He said nothing.
Serai, bowed her head briefly.
"You do not know me," Serai said. "But I have seen you in fire. In the end of all things."
"Your face comes with the storm. Your blood carries a voice not your own."
The chamber stilled.
"The Jewel does not pulse for power," she said. "It pulses because the soul inside it has begun to stir."
"The soul of Zybaah."
Gasps.
Low. Choked.
A bishop whispered a prayer.
One scholar backed away from the container.
Themar's hand hovered near his sword.
Still, the Jewel pulsed.
Slow.
Deep.
Relentless.
"You dare speak that name?" a priest muttered.
"Because you must remember it," Serai said coldly.
"Zybaah does not sleep. He is sealed. And his cage begins to crack."
"And what does this boy have to do with it?" the King asked. His voice was wary. Cold.
"The soul of Zybaah dwells within the Scale," Serai replied.
"That name was buried," the High Priest said through clenched teeth.
"And now it digs itself free," Serai said.
"Zybaah is not just a fallen angel," she continued. "He is the harbinger. The beginning of ruin. The fire-blooded flame that cracked the sky."
"His fall ended the divine era. His wrath shattered mountains. He forged the Black Gate from the ribs of giants."
"And now his soul is no longer silent."
"But what stirs within him... is no longer just Zybaah."
She looked to the floor.
To the sealed chamber beneath our feet.
"The demon that sleeps within him has no name… because it was never meant to exist."
"It is a god's mistake. A thing from before light."
The silence that followed was not calm.
It was the beginning of terror.
"You mean to say the Scale holds not a weapon," I said, "but a curse."
"Yes," Serai answered. "And if it awakens… it will not care for thrones or temples. It will end everything."
"Then why bring the boy here?" a noble barked. "Why not destroy the Scale and send both into ash and salt?!"
"Because," Serai said gently, "the boy is not the same as the soul inside."
"He is from Zybaah's line, yes. But Auren was not born to be Zybaah."
"He was born to face him."
"You mean to make him a weapon," Themar spat.
"No," Serai said. "I mean to offer him a choice."
She raised her staff. Its tip glowed.
Runes shimmered in the air older than Church scripture.
"There is a prophecy," she said, "forged in the temples of Tenshyra, before the first Church rose."
"When the star of ruin stirs from stone,
And black wings seek sky again,
The world's breath shall falter.
Four will stand at the gates of ending,
But only with the Fifth, shall ruin break or bind."
No one moved.
No one breathed.
"That is why he's here," Serai said. "Not by chance. Not by politics. Not by bloodline."
"Because he is the Fifth. The only one the Scale knows."
"The only one it fears."
I looked at Nyavell.
At Caelith.
Even at Ruzakai.
They didn't speak. But they didn't need to.
We understood now.
This wasn't about trust.
This wasn't about strategy.
This was about survival.
"Then by blood, by steel, and by the will of the flame," I said, "he joins the Blades of Aetherion."
"May the Fifth bind ruin... or die trying."
Far below, in the sealed vault,
the Scale pulsed once more.
But not like a heart.
Like a door.
Serai turned to Auren.
"Because the soul inside the Scale remembers you."