The cavern shuddered.
Lysandra felt it first—a shift in the air, a pull in the magic around them. It was like the earth had drawn a slow, deep breath, holding it in anticipation.
And then—the chains fell.
The ancient metal hit the stone floor with a resounding crash, the sound echoing like a tolling bell. A pulse of power rippled through the chamber, racing up Lysandra's spine.
The prisoner—the forgotten heir—stood motionless, his silver eyes half-lidded as if tasting his first breath of true freedom in centuries.
Jael didn't lower his sword. "What happens now?"
The prisoner tilted his head, stretching his fingers as if reacquainting himself with his own skin. The shadows around his feet seemed to coil and shift, responding to him like loyal hounds.
"We change fate."
Lysandra's pulse quickened.
The moment the last word left his lips, the cavern exploded into movement.
A Forgotten Power
The air rippled, a deep, guttural tremor rolling through the earth. Magic—old, unbound magic—spilled from the prisoner in waves, twisting through the cracks in the stone, unraveling the runes that had once held him captive.
The torches flickered, their flames bending in unnatural patterns, as if caught in an unseen wind.
Jael took a sharp step back. "What are you—"
But before he could finish, the prisoner's form began to change.
Lysandra's breath caught.
She had seen Jael shift before, had seen him fight against the curse that tried to pull him into something monstrous. But this was different.
This was not a struggle.
The prisoner embraced it.
His skin darkened, rippling like liquid shadow as fur, scales, and talons replaced flesh. His silver eyes gleamed through the transformation, pupils slitting into something wholly inhuman. Two massive horns twisted upward from his head, their tips glowing with ethereal runes that had been long dormant.
The shadows themselves seemed to cling to him, writhing like living things, pouring from the cavern walls and gathering at his feet.
Jael's grip on his sword tightened.
Lysandra reached for her dagger.
But before either of them could react, the prisoner—the first heir—turned his gaze on them.
"I am no longer a prisoner," he murmured, voice laced with something ancient. Something terrifyingly calm.
"I am the reckoning."
An Unfinished War
A sudden force sent cracks through the cavern walls. Dust rained from the ceiling. The runes—centuries-old symbols meant to contain him—were disintegrating under his presence alone.
Lysandra's instincts screamed run.
Jael didn't move.
"What are you planning?" he demanded.
The prisoner smiled—a predator's smile. "To claim what was stolen."
Lysandra exhaled sharply. "And what exactly does that mean?"
The prisoner turned his gaze toward her, considering. Then he raised a single hand, curling his fingers slightly.
In the distance—beyond the cavern walls—a low rumbling began.
Jael took a half-step forward. "What did you just do?"
The prisoner's smile widened.
"The first piece has moved."
The sound grew louder. Thunderous. Like mountains shifting, like something ancient waking from its slumber.
Lysandra's chest tightened.
Something was coming.
And for the first time, she wasn't sure if they had freed a man or unleashed a nightmare.