Kael ran.
Not in panic—not blindly—but with the instinct of someone who had fled all his life and learned when to listen to the earth beneath his feet. The citadel burned behind him, not with roaring fury but with a slow, deliberate glow, as though the fire itself were watching him leave.
The old road rose beneath his boots.
He felt it before he saw it—an ancient pressure beneath the soles of his feet, a subtle alignment of stone and memory. The mark on his hand flared once, sharp and unmistakable, and the ground responded.
The road remembered him.
That truth followed him into the trees.
Branches clawed at his cloak as he plunged into the forest east of Elarion, lungs burning, legs screaming. Dawn had fully broken now, pale light filtering through smoke-streaked clouds. Birds did not sing. The forest knew better.
Behind him, horns sounded.
Not the alarm of soldiers chasing a fugitive—but the measured calls of hunters who believed the prey already doomed.
Kael did not look back.
He reached the ravine just as the first arrows hissed past his shoulder. Stone shattered where one struck. He dove, rolled, and came up hard against the edge, peering down into the fog-choked depths below.
Too far to jump.
Too narrow to climb.
A third arrow embedded itself inches from his hand.
The mark burned.
Not yet, the voice whispered again—but this time, it was closer. Louder. As though it stood just behind his eyes.
"Now," Kael rasped, and slammed his marked hand against the stone.
The world answered.
Fire did not erupt.
It folded.
Heat rippled outward, bending air and stone alike, and the ravine groaned as ancient runes ignited along its walls—runes no living mason had carved. The fog recoiled, pulled back as though in fear, and the stone bridge rose from nothingness, assembling itself from memory and ash.
Kael did not question it.
He ran.
The bridge shuddered under his weight, sealing behind him as he crossed. When the first soldiers reached the edge, the path was gone, leaving only stone and emptiness.
Kael vanished into the forest.
By nightfall, the road ended.
The ancient stones sank back into dirt, moss reclaiming what had been borrowed. Kael collapsed beside a stream, gasping, fingers dug into wet earth. His body trembled—not from exhaustion alone, but from the effort of restraint.
The power inside him pushed.
It wanted to move.
It wanted to build.
Kael submerged his hands in the cold water, hissing as the mark steamed faintly. The reflection staring back at him did not look crowned, or chosen, or powerful.
He looked hunted.
"Don't," he muttered aloud. "Don't wake up."
The water rippled.
"You cannot unring a bell that was never silent."
Kael spun, dagger in hand.
A woman stood on the far bank—tall, dark-skinned, hair bound in braids threaded with ash-gray beads. Her cloak bore no sigil, no allegiance, but her eyes glowed faintly gold, catching light that wasn't there.
"You followed me," Kael said.
"I waited," she replied calmly. "There's a difference."
He circled, blade raised. "Who are you?"
She smiled—not kindly, but knowingly. "Someone who buried three kings and burned one crown."
The words hit him like a blow.
"You're lying."
"Am I?" She gestured toward his hand. "Show me."
Kael hesitated.
The mark pulsed once, betraying him.
The woman nodded. "Ah," she murmured. "It's louder than I expected."
"Answer me."
"My name is Sereth," she said. "I was once called a Warden—back when that meant something."
Kael lowered the dagger slightly. "Wardens were wiped out during the Binding Wars."
Sereth's smile faded. "So the histories say."
She stepped closer, eyes never leaving his. "You broke the first seal last night."
"I didn't mean to."
"No one ever does," she said softly. "That's the lie the Crown feeds us—that intention matters."
Kael's voice dropped. "Malreth is alive."
Sereth's jaw tightened. "Of course he is."
"You know him."
"I trained him," she said bitterly. "Before he learned how to listen to whispers instead of warnings."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the stream.
"What happens now?" Kael asked.
Sereth looked toward the darkened sky. "Now the realm fractures. The old families will hunt you. The priests will name you heretic or messiah depending on convenience. And the Crown—"
She met his gaze.
"—will continue waking up."
Kael sat heavily on a fallen log. "I don't want to rule anything."
"That," Sereth said, "is the most dangerous thing about you."
The forest stirred.
Kael felt it before he heard it—the tightening of air, the subtle shift of pressure. Sereth's head snapped up, hand already on the hilt of her curved blade.
"They're close," she said.
"How?"
Sereth's eyes flicked to his hand. "Because you're glowing to anyone who knows how to look."
Torches appeared between the trees—too many. Voices followed. Controlled. Confident.
Sereth grabbed Kael's wrist. "You have two choices. Run again, or stand and burn."
Kael swallowed. "And you?"
She smirked. "I do what Wardens do."
Steel rang as she stepped forward, blade humming with a faint resonance. The first soldier emerged—and fell before he could scream, throat opened cleanly.
Kael's heart pounded.
The mark roared.
Fire crept along his veins, not painful now—but demanding. He raised his hand instinctively, and the ground before him cracked, molten lines racing outward.
The soldiers hesitated.
Good, Kael thought grimly. They should.
"Stop!" he shouted. "I don't want this fight."
A familiar voice answered from the darkness. "You don't get to choose."
Malreth stepped into the torchlight, untouched as ever.
"The road remembers you," Malreth said. "But so do we."
Kael felt the world tilt.
Sereth swore. "You shouldn't be able to be here."
Malreth smiled. "The Crown opens many doors."
Fire surged.
Kael closed his eyes.
And for the first time, he stopped resisting.