Eryk stopped before the massive metal doorway and tilted his head upward, as though even he felt the need to acknowledge its scale before speaking. The door towered over them, fifty feet of reinforced iron and obsidian fused together with thick seams of etched runes that pulsed faintly with restrained power, each symbol carved not for decoration, but for containment. The stone around it had been melted and reforged multiple times, layers upon layers of failed attempts and corrections, as if the mountain itself had resisted whatever lay beyond and had been beaten into submission through repetition and force.
"It's his chamber," Eryk said at last, his tone casual but not careless. "It's where the bread is made to bake."
Calik stared at the door, his good eye narrowing as his mind struggled to reconcile the scale of what he was seeing with the simplicity of the explanation. This was not a throne room, not a war hall, not a temple in the traditional sense, and yet the pressure radiating from beyond it made his injured wing twitch involuntarily, muscles tightening as if preparing for impact. He could feel something on the other side, not reaching outward, not probing or testing, but simply existing with such density that it bent everything around it.
"What need does one man have for a room like this," Calik asked slowly, his voice rough from exhaustion and restrained pain. "Even a king."
Eryk's masked face turned slightly toward him, the carved beast's grin frozen in eternal snarl. "He isn't a king."
Calik scoffed softly, though the sound lacked conviction. "That's what they all say."
Eryk did not argue. Instead, he extended his hands toward the door, and Calik felt it before he saw it, a crawling sensation along his spine as purple chain-like structures began to ooze from Eryk's palms, each link forming individually, interlocking with a faint metallic hiss. The resonance was precise and deliberate, not wild or aggressive, shaped into a tool rather than a weapon.
The chains wrapped around the massive handles, tightening as Eryk leaned back and pulled.
The door responded with a low, grinding whine that reverberated through the cavern, the sound traveling up Calik's legs and into his chest, rattling his bones as the seals disengaged one by one. Smoke spilled out through the widening gap, thick and pale, rolling across the stone floor in heavy waves that carried warmth with them, not the comforting warmth of fire, but the oppressive heat of something alive and contained.
Calik took an involuntary step back.
As the doors fully opened, the interior revealed itself slowly, the smoke thinning just enough for shapes to emerge. The chamber beyond was enormous, its walls carved directly from the mountain's heart, smooth and dark, devoid of ornamentation or banners, as if decoration itself had been deemed unnecessary. The floor sloped gently downward toward the center of the room, where a single object rested, stark and solitary.
A sleek obsidian tub, rectangular and impossibly smooth, its surface reflecting the dim light like still water, fifteen feet long and ten feet wide, filled nearly to the brim with dark, viscous liquid that stirred faintly as if responding to something unseen.
And above it—
Calik's breath caught in his throat.
A massive tree made entirely of golden light hung suspended in the air, its trunk wide and radiant, its branches splitting endlessly in every direction, each one fracturing into thinner offshoots that shimmered and shifted constantly, rearranging themselves in patterns too complex to follow. Streams of glowing resonance flowed down from the branches like cascading light, pouring into the tub below in steady, relentless currents.
Calik felt his knees weaken.
"Chronicle Resonance," he whispered, the words escaping him before he could stop them.
Eryk's chest lifted with something like pride. "The source," he said quietly. "Or at least, the closest thing this world has to one."
Calik's mind reeled as he stared at the tree, his thoughts racing despite himself. Chronicle Resonance was not meant to be wielded, not meant to be contained, not meant to exist in such concentration outside of abstract theory and forbidden scripture. It was possibility itself, the branching paths of what could be, distilled into raw energy, capable of rewriting outcomes rather than merely influencing them.
"This is insanity," Calik muttered, his voice hoarse. "No one controls this. Not gods. Not demons. Not—"
"Oh," Eryk interrupted lightly. "No one controls it."
Calik turned sharply toward him. "Then what is this?"
Eryk tilted his head toward the tub. "A conduit. Though, he is the only one with the key."
The surface of the dark liquid rippled suddenly.
Calik froze.
The resonance streams intensified, the golden light pulsing brighter as the liquid within the tub began to churn, thick waves rolling outward as something beneath the surface shifted. The smoke in the chamber swirled faster, drawn inward as if pulled by a vacuum, and Calik felt a sudden, crushing weight settle on his chest, his breath hitching as his instincts screamed at him to flee.
A shape began to rise.
Slowly, deliberately, a tall figure emerged from the tub, water cascading off broad shoulders and down a lean frame that seemed carved rather than grown. Long, matted hair clung to his back and arms, darkened by the liquid, hanging nearly to his waist as he straightened fully, the surface of the tub settling once more into unnatural stillness behind him.
"They are here, Master," Eryk said, his voice steady but reverent.
The figure turned his head.
Two yellow eyes ignited through the thinning smoke.
Calik's vision tunneled.
The pressure hit him all at once, not a blast or a wave, but an overwhelming certainty that pressed down on his very thoughts, stripping away bravado and fury alike. His heart slammed against his ribs as his body reacted before his mind could catch up, muscles locking, knees buckling as his balance vanished beneath him.
'This is Drakos.'
The realization hit harder than any blow Falco had landed.
'This is the man Father feared.'
Calik swallowed hard, his mind spiraling as he tried to understand how a human could feel like this, how something so contained could radiate such suffocating authority without raising his voice or lifting a hand. Drakos did not look at them like enemies or allies, did not measure or judge, and somehow that indifference was worse than hatred.
"Thank you, Eryk," Drakos said, his voice calm, smooth, and impossibly steady.
At the sound of it, the golden tree above the tub shuddered.
The branches began to collapse inward, the endless possibilities folding back on themselves as the light condensed, twisting into spiraling streams that flowed through the air and into Drakos's eyes. The chamber dimmed as the tree vanished entirely, leaving only the faint glow reflected in his gaze, brighter now, sharper, as though something vast had been sealed behind his pupils.
Calik's breath came shallow and fast.
'He absorbed it...he absorbed Chronicle Resonance.'
Women in dark cloaks appeared silently at Drakos's side, one holding a robe of deep crimson, another presenting an obsidian mask devoid of expression, smooth and featureless, its surface swallowing light rather than reflecting it. They moved with practiced efficiency, as if this ritual had been performed countless times before.
Calik barely registered them.
In three hundred years of life, in countless battles and blood-soaked rituals, he had never felt fear like this, not the sharp terror of impending death, but the slow, crushing realization of insignificance. His men felt it too, their movements synchronized without command as they dropped to their knees, wings folding instinctively, heads bowed low against the stone.
Calik followed a heartbeat later, the impact of his knee against the floor sending pain up his leg that he ignored entirely.
His thoughts raced uncontrollably.
'Do I speak? Am I allowed to speak? Does he already know why I'm here?'
"D-Drakos, sir. I am Calik. Son of-" Calik began, his voice faltering despite his effort to steady it.
"Son of Fael," Drakos interrupted gently, his tone unchanged. "I know."
Calik's breath caught.
"You wish to join me," Drakos continued, stepping forward, water dripping from his robes onto the stone floor with soft, deliberate sounds that echoed far louder in the silence than they should have.
"Yes," Calik said quickly, bowing his head lower. "The Demon Clans do."
Drakos stopped in front of him.
For a moment, Calik feared he would strike him down where he knelt, feared judgment, punishment, or humiliation, but instead a firm hand settled on his shoulder, heavy and grounding in a way that sent a jolt through his spine.
"Stand," Drakos said quietly. "I am not a king. I am not a god. Those who bow their heads unwillingly, value their own heads the least of all men."
Calik hesitated, then obeyed, rising slowly, his men following suit.
Up close, the shock of Drakos's height hit him fully. Calik stood at seven feet, a demon of imposing build, yet the human before him stood nearly eye to eye, six foot eight at least, his presence dwarfing his physical frame.
"Await my orders," Drakos said simply, turning away without another glance.
As he walked deeper into the chamber, attendants falling into step beside him, Calik stood frozen, the weight of his choice settling heavily in his chest.
The Demon Clans had joined the Inquisitors of Godfall and the world had shifted.