---
Breath.
Kael's eyes flew open as air surged into his lungs, burning like fire. He coughed violently, his body spasming in pain—yet it was the pain of being alive. He lay on cold stone, sweat soaking through his tattered uniform.
Alive…?
Memories flooded back—the fall, the void, the two beings inside him… and the voice that promised a second chance.
But where was he?
The ceiling above was carved from ancient, rune-inscribed stone. The glow of soft green crystals pulsed from cracks in the walls like a heartbeat. Thick roots twisted along the edges of the room, some glowing faintly, others oozing drops of radiant mana like sap.
It smelled like time itself had stood still here.
"You're awake," came a gravelly voice.
Kael turned his head with effort. A man sat across from him, brewing tea over a small arcane fire.
He looked ancient—maybe seventy, maybe a thousand. His hair was silver-white, tied back in a short tail. His left arm was missing at the shoulder. His right eye glowed with a dim silver light; the other was closed with an old scar running through it.
The man didn't speak again. Just poured a second cup of tea and placed it beside Kael.
After a long silence, Kael rasped, "Where… am I?"
The man sipped quietly. "A place the world forgot. A place even death avoids."
Kael frowned. "That doesn't… help."
"No," the man agreed. "But neither will screaming. Drink. You'll need your strength."
Kael forced himself upright, his limbs shaking. The tea smelled like herbs and something… older. He drank.
Warmth flooded through him, easing the pain in his bones.
"What is this place?" Kael asked again, voice firmer.
The man finally looked at him directly. "This… is the Root Vault. Beneath the academy. Beneath even the sacred floors the priests pretend are holy."
Kael blinked. "How did I get here?"
"I brought you."
"…Why?"
"Because," the old man said, eyes sharp now, "you were dead. And yet, your soul refused to leave. Two… no, three presences were tearing this realm apart."
Kael stiffened.
The old man continued, "I've seen a lot in my years. Possession, reincarnation, resurrection. But never this. Never two divine-class souls fighting for space inside a broken boy."
Kael whispered, "Alaric… Veyrion."
The man's eyes narrowed.
"You remember the names. Interesting."
Kael's fists clenched. "They're inside me. Arguing. Waiting. They… they want something."
"They always do," the old man muttered. "The Hero wants salvation. The Demon wants destruction. And you—Kael Ardyn—are caught between."
---
A pause.
The fire cracked. Roots pulsed gently above.
Finally, the man said, "I am Orren. Once a Grand Arcanist of the Empire. Now, I keep this tomb of secrets… waiting for someone worth saving."
Kael narrowed his eyes. "Why help me?"
"You are a contradiction," Orren said. "A vessel no god would dare make, yet here you are. If left alone, you'll burn. Or worse—be used."
"So I'm just a tool to you?"
Orren laughed, dry and short. "To me? No. To them?" He looked up, toward the ceiling. "Definitely."
Kael didn't respond. His body trembled, not from fear—but the overwhelming pressure in his chest.
The two souls… they were whispering again.
He clutched his head. The room felt like it was spinning.
Orren's voice came firm: "Breathe. Listen to me. You want to survive? You need control. Over them. Over yourself. And over the power that's coming."
Kael gasped, eyes flashing with flickers of gold and black.
"I'll teach you," Orren said. "But understand this—your enemies above are not schoolyard bullies anymore. They are backed by old bloodlines and darker things. If you want revenge…"
Kael looked up, his gaze colder than death.
"I'll take it," he said. "But not now. Not weak."
Orren gave a satisfied nod. "Then rise. Kael Ardyn. Let's begin your second life."
---