The throne room was colder than usual.
Kael stood before the great window of black-stained glass, watching the crimson clouds swirl above Dreadhold. They hadn't faded since the dream. His reflection in the glass was strange—eyes darker, older. Tired.
Behind him, the heavy doors creaked open. Lyra stepped in, her cloak brushing against the obsidian floor. She didn't speak, only joined him in silence. For a moment, it felt like the world had paused just for them.
"You're quiet," she said.
"I'm listening," Kael replied, eyes fixed on the horizon.
"To what?"
He turned, and the shadows of the hall clung to his back like wings. "To something beneath the skin of the world."
Lyra didn't flinch. "You're scaring your people."
"I'm scaring myself."
The Thorns had noticed the change.
Kael's aura had grown colder. Even Luna and Eclipse—his most loyal—spoke less around him. A single glance was often enough to silence a room.
Whispers crept like weeds through the halls. The nobles were restless. The generals were questioning orders behind closed doors. Some claimed Kael had been cursed. Others said the Eye had marked him. And a few… whispered of bloodlines soaked in tyrant's wrath.
"Maybe he's no better than the ones he overthrew," a noble hissed in the dark.
The traitor, cloaked in concern, merely nodded. "I only pray it's not true."
During the next war council, Kael stood at the head of the obsidian table. Maps were unrolled, strategies laid bare, but he didn't hear any of it.
A low hum echoed in his skull. The Eye's voice, faint—like silk over glass.
"You were born to command. Break them."
A Thorn dared to raise his voice.
"My King, with all due respect, your recent decisions have—"
The temperature dropped.
In a flash, the Thorn was slammed against the wall by unseen force, choking on his own breath.
Silence fell like an axe.
Kael blinked. Realized what he'd done. His hand trembled.
Then—"Kael." Lyra's voice cut through the madness.
She stepped beside him, calm, grounding. Her fingers brushed his arm.
And like a snapped spell, Kael released the Thorn, who crumpled to the floor, gasping.
"I… I didn't mean to—" he whispered.
"I know," Lyra said softly, guiding him away. "But you have to fight it. You're still you."
That night, Kael sat in the garden, where blood roses bloomed under the moon.
Valdran found him there, seated alone with shadows curling at his feet like smoke.
"I saw it again," Kael murmured, staring at his gloved hands. "Her body. My hands… soaked in blood."
Valdran's silence was heavy.
"This Eye," Kael continued, "it doesn't just haunt me. It knows me. It called me by my true name."
Valdran finally spoke, voice low. "I think it made you, Kael."
Kael looked up.
"I think you were born of its will. Forged in the dark. Maybe even chosen."
Kael didn't respond. Just stared at the moon.
By morning, the castle stirred with panic.
A messenger had been found dead at the gates—eyes gouged out, chest carved with a mark in ancient rune. The mark of the Eye.
Blood pooled in a perfect circle beneath him. No footsteps led in or out.
As guards swarmed, none noticed the shadow watching from above—a flicker behind a stone gargoyle, a glint of crimson where no light should reach.
Far beyond Dreadhold, a new whisper stirred.
And deep within Kael, the Eye… smiled.