Foundations and Faultlines

The sound of hammers striking stone echoed through the ruins. Dust filled the air as the people of Vaelthane began their work, clearing rubble, setting the first stones of what would become homes, gathering wood to rebuild the shattered gates.

Kael moved among them, not as a king issuing commands, but as one of them—lifting broken beams, hauling stone, tending to the wounded. He felt their eyes on him, some cautious, some hopeful. They were still unsure of him, of this new future he spoke of.

But that was fine. Trust was built, not demanded.

At the heart of it all, Fenir watched. She had said little since her transformation—her body still adjusting, her mind quiet. Yet Kael felt her presence like a second shadow.

When he finally stopped to catch his breath, she spoke.

"You should have waited."

Kael wiped the sweat from his brow. "For what?"

Fenir's gaze flickered, unreadable. "For the right moment. For when you knew what you were truly taking on."

"And how long would that be?" he countered. "A month? A year? Until the kingdom rotted into nothing?"

She exhaled sharply, looking away. "You don't understand, Kael. There are things moving in the dark—forces that don't want Vaelthane to rise again. Taking the throne, claiming this city—it's not just rebuilding walls. You're calling back ghosts."

Kael tensed. He had felt it, too—that whisper in his bones, the weight of unseen eyes.

But before he could respond, a shout rang through the ruins.

"Riders approaching!"

The tension in the air sharpened. Kael turned, heart pounding, as figures emerged from the distant hills, their banners tattered, their cloaks heavy with dust.

Not an army.

But not allies, either.

Fenir's hand brushed his arm, her fingers cold. "And there it begins."

Kael narrowed his eyes. Whoever they were, they had come knowing Vaelthane was rising.

And now, he would find out if they had come to join him—or to tear it all down.

—