Chapter 6: Those Who Watch

The wind had changed.

On the forecourt of Dornhal, the survivors gathered around the ruins of the ancient fortress stood frozen. There were a hundred of them—bannerless soldiers, wandering mages, orphans of vanished empires. Each bore the marks of misery or war, and each had believed they'd found new hope in Kaelen Veyr.

But since he'd entered the Hall of the Black Throne alone, the silence had thickened—almost tangible, oppressive as a leaden shroud.

— He shouldn't stay in there so long, Bryn muttered, the veteran's fire-scarred beard bristling as he stared at the tower's shadow. — That throne… it devours all who touch it.

— It's more than a seat, a soft voice said beside him.

Fira, the pale-eyed priestess, stood upright, fingers clutching a carved bone talisman. She had read the Black Litanies. She knew what the throne had been: a fragment of souls, a legacy forged in damnation, fed by the blood of ancient bloodlines.

— That throne contains every broken oath of the sovereigns before him, she whispered. If he sits… he accepts to bear them.

No one answered. Even the boldest felt watched. The birds had fled. The torches flickered despite the still air.

And then, at last…

The doors opened with a low, gravely groan.

Kaelen emerged.

He strode forward slowly, each step echoing like a verdict. His features still bore a man's shape—but his eyes had changed. No hesitation remained, no wavering humanity. Only a cold, relentless will.

The Black Crown encircled his brow, its chipped surface glowing with a faint twilight sheen—no longer golden, but a dusk-lit memory of all it had destroyed.

Around him, silence reigned.

Even the weapons in his soldiers' hands stilled.

Kaelen halted atop the steps, looking down on the crowd.

— You came to follow a man, he said.

His voice carried effortlessly: calm, yet heavy, like a judge prepared to pronounce sentence.

— I am no longer that man.

A shiver ran through the assembly. Some lowered their eyes.

— You followed me into ruin. Into hunger, into cold, into the shame of living without a home.

I offered you promises.

But promises of men are not enough to rebuild an empire.

He paused. His words fell like tolling bells.

— So I took what the dead left me.

He raised a hand. The courtyard's stones quivered.

An ancient circle, hidden beneath rubble, began to glow, revealing forgotten geometry. Runes lit up, floating in the air like suspended embers.

— I have become what kingdoms fear.

What history seeks to bury.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

— I am their memory. Their wrath. Their final heir.

When he opened them, something else shone in his gaze—a foreign glimmer, as though a thousand spirits watched through him.

— I am the Monarch of the Forsaken Realms.

And here is my vow:

We will no longer beg.

We will no longer hide.

He raised his sword high.

— We will reclaim what was stolen.

Stone by stone. Blood for blood.

A vast silence descended.

Then… one knee touched the ground.

A second.

A third.

And little by little, the assembly knelt.

But not all.

Some remained standing, frozen, faces twisted in fear. Others backed away, eyes glinting with suspicion. A handful slipped silently into the shadows.

Among them, a young scout in a travel-worn cloak—lined inside with concealment runes—lingered for a final glance at Kaelen… then vanished into the crowd.

He was already running north.

Toward another crown.

Toward an empire that had never ceased watching the dead lands.

For what had just been born at Dornhal… would shake the entire continent.

To be continued…