Chapter 15: The Crownless Path

Kaelen walked beneath a sky that no longer looked the same.

The stars above Blackstone had shifted. They spun in quiet spirals, slow but deliberate, as if realigning to some ancient geometry. A vast sigil drawn across the heavens. And Kaelen—newly branded by the city's test—was now part of that pattern.

The blade he had taken from the well—the Moment Blade, he had begun calling it—was no longer visible, but it resonated beneath his skin. When he closed his eyes, he could feel its weightless edge resting in his palm. A weapon forged not of material but of meaning.

And meaning was more dangerous than any metal.

Blackstone was now behind him. Not gone. Simply… paused. He could feel its presence like a mountain on his back. Watching. Waiting.

He followed a road of cracked black glass leading north, toward a broken range of mountains clawing at the horizon.

He wasn't sure why.

Only that something there was calling.

Two days passed in silence.

No Riftborn. No visions. Only the wind, and the distant sound of stone shifting against stone—like the bones of the world grinding beneath its own weight.

Kaelen welcomed the solitude. It gave him space to think.

Blackstone had given him more than a weapon. It had shown him truths. Some about himself. Some about the world.

The experiments done to him were only the beginning.

He wasn't just changed—he had been prepared. Altered with purpose by forces that didn't care whether he understood or survived. And yet, through power, he had begun carving out something entirely his own.

But that was the problem.

The more he changed, the more inhuman he felt.

He had no companions. No one to ground him. No cause beyond survival and the pursuit of strength. And yet—he couldn't shake the feeling that a path was forming ahead of him.

Not a destiny.

A design.

Someone else's.

That was what he hated most.

On the third day, the mountains greeted him with a corpse.

It was impaled on a crystal spire jutting out of the earth like a jagged tooth. The body had once been human, but now it was barely flesh—its skin bleached white, veins blackened, and eyes torn out cleanly.

Not scavengers. Surgical.

Kaelen crouched beside it.

A symbol was burned into the corpse's chest. A spiral of overlapping triangles, each folding into itself. It pulsed faintly when Kaelen touched it.

Then it spoke.

"Another wanderer. Another vessel. Another failure."

Kaelen didn't flinch. He had heard worse from his own dreams.

"Who are you?"

"We are the Veiled Tribunal. The ones who see what lies behind the Rift."

The voice was not from the body—it came from the symbol.

"You will walk the path of bones, Kaelen. You already have. But soon, you will face the Crownless King. And you will understand what it means to be unmade."

Kaelen rose.

"I've faced worse than threats whispered from corpses."

"Then face his legacy."

The corpse exploded.

No fire. No light. Just—sound. A high-pitched, pressureless scream that shattered the crystal spire and sent Kaelen staggering back. The air bled color, and the sky dimmed for a moment before settling again.

When Kaelen looked back, the body was gone.

But the road had changed.

Now it split in two.

One led upward into the jagged peaks.

The other? Down. Into a valley that breathed shadows.

Kaelen chose the valley.

Because whatever the Veiled Tribunal feared—that was where he needed to go.

The descent was brutal.

Mist clung to him like oil. Trees here grew sideways, their bark etched with spiraling glyphs that writhed when touched. The ground pulsed faintly, as if something beneath it was dreaming.

He passed no animals. Only bones.

And statues.

Hundreds of them, scattered like forgotten monuments. Men. Women. Children. All carved from black stone, each one twisted in agony, frozen mid-scream or mid-run.

One held its own eyes.

Another reached for a child just out of reach.

Kaelen paused before a woman whose face had been split in two—half joy, half despair.

He touched her shoulder.

Warm.

Not stone.

He yanked his hand back. A whisper coiled from her mouth.

"He stole our faces. Gave us truth instead."

Kaelen turned away.

At the heart of the valley stood a monolith.

A cube. Perfectly smooth. Covered in runes that crawled across its surface like living veins. Atop it sat a throne carved from bone and mirror fragments.

And in it—no king.

But his voice was everywhere.

"You carry the thread. You sever the past. You forge the silence.But what do you create, Kaelen of the Riftborn flame?"

Kaelen faced the monolith.

"Show yourself."

"I have no self. I am the residue of a king who crowned himself with oblivion. I am the echo of one who saw too far and unraveled. But I left this place as a trial. For you."

"Why me?"

"Because you've already begun the pattern. And I need you to finish it."

Kaelen stepped closer.

"I don't follow patterns. I break them."

The cube pulsed.

"Then prove it."

From the ground rose a creature.

Seven-limbed. Made of mirrored plates and spiked bone. Its face was a spiral of weeping mouths.

It lunged.

Kaelen moved.

The battle was unlike any he'd fought before.

Every time he struck, the creature duplicated his attack. Blades of mirrored air shot back at him, mimicking his strikes perfectly. Its limbs moved like his, reading his intent before he even acted.

A perfect reflection.

Until Kaelen changed the rule.

He let it strike him.

Took the blow—let the mirror pierce his side. Blood sprayed. Pain burned.

But in that moment of mimicry, the creature's guard dropped.

Because Kaelen didn't flinch.

He smiled.

And unleashed the Moment Blade.

From his palm, a sliver of black light erupted. It did not cut flesh—it cut choice. Time cracked. The creature paused, then crumbled inward, folding upon itself like a dying star.

Kaelen stood over the dust.

Breathing.

Bleeding.

Victorious.

The throne spoke one last time.

"The King had no crown because he gave it away. To those who survived him. Now, Kaelen, you hold a piece of it."

The cube split.

Inside—an orb. Cracked. Grey. But alive.

It pulsed in rhythm with his veins.

He touched it.

And saw—everything.

Thousands of reflections of himself. Versions who died. Versions who knelt. Versions who ruled entire worlds, burned them down, then wept.

And in all of them—one constant.

Loneliness.

The power he pursued, the silence he wore, the confidence he carried—none of it filled the void.

Not really.

And yet he moved forward. Always.

When Kaelen emerged from the valley, he carried the cracked orb in one hand and the blade in the other.

His marks had deepened, spreading to his neck and back. His shadow now flickered unnaturally, like it had a mind of its own.

But his path was clearer.

He wasn't just seeking strength.

He was tracing the bones of a forgotten war. One that never ended—only hid itself behind veils and riddles and cities like Blackstone.

Whatever had started all of this—the Rupture, the experiments, the Riftborn—he would find it.

And when he did?

He wouldn't kneel.