The Crimson Crown
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The flames had not died down.
They never would, not now.
Dreadhollow Fortress stood reborn in ruin. From its shattered spires poured an infernal glow, like the breath of a slumbering god stirring awake. The mountain it clung to shuddered under the strain—earth weeping molten veins beneath ancient stone.
And at the heart of it all stood Aedric Valtoris.
Sword in hand. Eyes glowing like twin suns.
No longer chained.
No longer a prince.
But something far more dangerous.
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The Heartbrand pulsed in his grip.
It was no ordinary weapon. Forged in the dying breath of a flame-god, it had been sealed away not for its power, but for what it demanded. It was not just a sword—it was an inheritance of destruction. A legacy of fire incarnate.
And it had chosen him.
Aedric's skin cracked with fissures of light as the weapon's core fused with his soul. For a heartbeat, his entire past flashed before him:
His mother's final scream.
Caelen's cold, lying eyes as he gave the order.
The pyre.
The betrayal.
Selene's face as she turned away.
All of it—the pain, the loss, the love—was reduced to embers in the forge of who he had become.
Not reborn.
Remade.
---
In the shadows behind him, the black gates opened with a silent push.
Lyara stepped inside.
She froze as the heat brushed her face, not scorching, but recognizing her. Her curse—the fate-visions—flared like wild stars. Her breath caught as she saw him standing at the altar, the sword still glowing, runes circling his form like a celestial spiral.
He turned, and their eyes met.
Time didn't stop. It shattered.
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"You shouldn't have come," Aedric said quietly.
His voice wasn't the same. It had depth now. Layers. Like a hymn buried beneath centuries of war drums.
Lyara stepped forward anyway, her boots crunching ash and broken sigils.
"I saw what you become," she said. "But I also saw why."
He tilted his head. "And?"
She took a deep breath. "The world isn't ready for you. But I am."
Aedric blinked.
For the first time in weeks, he wasn't alone in the fire.
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A sudden tremor ripped through the fortress. The vault walls screamed, reacting violently to the Heartbrand's awakening. Ancient wards ignited, desperate to reseal what had been unleashed.
But it was too late.
The fire had chosen its vessel. The sword was no longer bound by stone or spell.
And neither was he.
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Miles away, in the royal capital of Caer Thalos, the Great Bell tolled.
Priests scrambled through catacombs as runes across the palace walls began to glow in response to a rising surge of forbidden power. The Vel Council—guardians of old prophecy—awoke from their enchanted slumber. Seers screamed in unison.
> "THE ASH-BORN RETURNS."
The realm stirred in dread.
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In his throne room, Caelen felt it too.
He dropped the goblet.
Wine turned to steam before it hit the ground.
Selene, standing beside him, clutched her chest. She heard the song of fire—Aedric's fire. Not just in her mind… but in her soul. That part of her which had once loved him still burned, hidden beneath layers of lies and regret.
And it hurt.
Caelen rose, voice cold as obsidian.
"Mobilize the Blackguard. Seal the borders. If he sets one foot in this kingdom—"
"He already has," Selene whispered.
The look Caelen gave her was venom. "Whose side are you on?"
She didn't answer.
Because in her heart, she already had.
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Back in Dreadhollow, Lyara stepped closer to Aedric, and his flame dimmed slightly—not weakened, but willing. A strange stillness fell between them, made of unspoken promises and fates too tangled for words.
"Where will you go?" she asked.
Aedric turned his gaze skyward, watching fire split the night.
"To reclaim what was mine."
He looked at the sword, then at her.
"...And to destroy what never should've been."
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The Heartbrand blazed.
The Crimson Crown—an ancient sigil of a forgotten empire—appeared above his brow, made of pure flame.
And as the fortress crumbled beneath them, Aedric stepped into the open night, no longer hiding.
The war for Ithrael had begun.
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