The throne room no longer smelled like incense.
Cold stone dominated the air now—sharp, clean, unforgiving. Torches lined the walls, their flames steady, disciplined. Five figures knelt at the center of the chamber, heads lowered, shadows stretching long across polished marble.
At the far end, a new throne.
Not gilded. Not ornate.
Functional.
The man seated upon it leaned forward, fingers clenched around the armrests hard enough to whiten his knuckles. His crown sat crooked, placed in haste rather than ceremony. His eyes burned hotter than the torches.
"Escaped," he said.
The word struck the room like a lash.
None of the kneeling twins spoke. Not even Kendrick. His jaw tightened, fire flickering faintly beneath his skin before he forced it down.
"You let him walk out of my brother's world," the king continued, rising to his feet. "You let that thing survive."
He descended the steps slowly, boots echoing with measured fury.
"I want him found," he said. "I don't care how long it takes. I don't care who dies."
He stopped in front of them.
"Alive," he added. "Or in pieces."
A door behind the throne groaned open.
Metal moved.
Boots struck stone in perfect unison.
The twins dared to glance up.
They saw armor they had never seen before—dark steel etched with unfamiliar symbols, joints reinforced, edges sharpened not for beauty but purpose. Spears rested in the soldiers' hands, their tips humming faintly, metal tuned to something unnatural.
The king smiled without warmth.
"Meet the Hunters of Power."
Kendrick's breath caught.
These weren't nobles. These weren't gifted.
They were built to kill.
The forest breathed at night.
Insects whispered. Leaves shifted. Somewhere distant, something large moved slowly through brush and shadow. Moonlight filtered down in fractured silver lines.
Mournveil walked without sound.
Dave lay in his arms, limp, head resting against Mournveil's shoulder. Every step was careful. Deliberate. As if the ground itself might break him further.
White sparks danced across Dave's fingers—tiny, unstable flickers that appeared and vanished like dying stars.
Mournveil felt each one.
They burned through cloth. Through skin. Not hot—hungry.
He emerged into a clearing.
Stone rose from the earth ahead, half-swallowed by vines and time. Cracked pillars. Broken steps. An old temple, abandoned long before empires learned to fear power.
Mournveil stepped inside.
The air was cool. Still.
He lowered Dave onto a slab of stone near the center, easing him down as if sleep alone might heal him. Dave's chest rose and fell unevenly. His brow twitched. His lips parted in a soundless cry.
Mournveil knelt beside him.
"Don't," he whispered. His voice barely disturbed the dust. "Not now."
A white spark jumped from Dave's hand and burned a mark into the stone.
Mournveil didn't flinch.
"Not after you finally became free."
Metal wheels cut through dirt roads.
A caravan pushed forward beneath the African sun, banners snapping sharply in the wind. Villagers paused mid-task, staring. Children hid behind doorframes. Elders gripped staffs tighter.
The armor gleamed.
At the front rode a man without ornament.
No sigils. No colors.
Just scars.
Kazul dismounted slowly, boots sinking into red earth. His eyes swept the land—not with curiosity, but evaluation. Like a blade measuring distance before the strike.
Behind him, Kendrick walked in silence, wrists bound in suppressive chains. Fire slept beneath his skin, restless, angry.
Kazul didn't look at him when he spoke.
"You saw him," Kazul said.
Kendrick swallowed. "Yes."
Kazul finally turned.
"And lived."
A thin smile crept across his face. Not pleased. Interested.
"Good," Kazul said. "That means he bleeds."
Dave woke screaming.
His back arched violently, white light tearing through his veins, veins branching like cracks through glass beneath his skin. His hands clawed at air that wasn't there.
"No—no—stop—!"
Mournveil was on him instantly, pinning his shoulders gently but firmly to the stone.
"Dave," he said, voice cutting through the panic. "Look at me."
Dave's eyes snapped open—pure white for half a second before fading back to human.
"I'm burning," Dave gasped. "I can't—I can't turn it off—"
"You're alive," Mournveil said.
Dave shook. Sweat poured from him. Fear flooded his face in raw, unfiltered waves.
"What am I?" he whispered.
Mournveil didn't hesitate.
"You're the only one like me."
The words settled between them—heavy, irreversible.
Dave's breathing slowed.
Just a little.
The village square fell silent at the lift of Kazul's hand.
Even the wind seemed to listen.
"You fear them," Kazul said calmly, his voice carrying without effort. "You should."
He gestured to Kendrick.
"A god," he continued. "Born with power you'll never have."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Kazul turned his finger toward them.
"And you?" he said. "You are prey."
A pause.
Then—
"We will protect you."
Cheers erupted. Relief. Gratitude. Fear finding a home.
Kendrick looked away.
Something ugly took root.
Dave leaned heavily on Mournveil's arm.
Every step was agony. His legs shook violently, muscles rebelling, body still scorched from within. Sweat soaked his clothes.
"I don't want to hurt anyone," Dave muttered through clenched teeth.
Mournveil steadied him.
"Good," he said. "That means you're different."
Dave managed one step.
Then another.
Far away, thunder rolled.
Moonlight washed over broken stone.
Boots surrounded the temple.
Kazul stepped into view, silver light tracing the scars on his face.
He smiled.
"Found you."
Inside, Mournveil felt it instantly.
He moved.
Placed himself between Dave and the doorway.
His eyes darkened.