That night, Kael dreamed of a burning throne.
Vaelion stood atop it, his crown molten, eyes hollow stars. The world bowed, but none of them were alive.
"You resist what is already yours," the figure whispered.
Kael raised his sword. "I'm not like you."
Vaelion laughed. "Not yet."
He woke with a gasp, sweat drenching his tunic. Eira sat beside the fire, sharpening her dagger.
"You screamed again," she said without looking.
Kael nodded. "He's getting stronger."
"We need answers," she said. "More than just history. We need someone who fought him."
Kael frowned. "Then we're going to the dead."