The war was over.
But Eldermere did not rest.
Smoke still curled from ruined homes, the scent of charred wood lingering in the damp morning air.
The dead had been buried, but the blood remained.
The village streets, once rough dirt pathways, were now streaked with crimson.
A permanent scar.
A reminder.
That Eldermere had changed.
Aric stood at the edge of the village square, watching as his people moved like ghosts.
They had fought.
They had survived.
But victory had not brought peace.
It had brought fear.
People whispered as he passed.
Not loudly.
Not boldly.
But in hushed voices, their eyes darting away when his gaze met theirs.
"Did you hear what they call him?"
"A warlord. A tyrant."
"No. A king."
A king.
The word sank into his skin, cold and heavy.
It should have meant power.
It should have meant security.
Instead—
It meant expectation.
And Aric had no idea how to meet it.
A child peered at him from behind a cart, clutching her mother's skirts.
Her big, dark eyes were not full of awe.
Nor adoration.
But fear.
The kind of fear a child had for the monsters in their stories.
And it hit him harder than any blade.
"You don't belong to them."
The Rift's whisper echoed in his mind.
Aric exhaled sharply.
Turned.
And walked away.
Because he did not have an answer.
Not yet.
----
She found him before he could disappear.
Lira's boots crunched against the dirt, her presence like a blade pressed against his back.
She did not hesitate.
She did not wait.
She stepped in front of him, blocking his path.
And when she spoke—
Her voice was low and sharp.
"Who is Aelthar?"
Aric stilled.
The air felt heavier.
Not from the Rift.
Not from magic.
But from the weight of the question.
Lira's green eyes burned into his.
"You froze last night," she said. "When I said that name."
Her arms were crossed, her stance tight—like she was bracing herself for what he might say.
Because she already knew.
Not the details.
Not the full truth.
But enough.
She knew that name belonged to him.
Aric's fingers tensed at his sides.
Because what could he say?
That he had lived before?
That he had ruled before?
That the Rift wasn't just calling him—
It was remembering him?
Would she even believe it?
Would he?
Lira's voice lowered.
"Tell me, Aric," she said.
Not as a soldier.
Not as an ally.
As a friend.
"Are you still the man I followed into war?"
Aric's throat felt dry.
Because he wasn't sure.
Not anymore.
But before he could speak—
Before he could even try to give her an answer that wouldn't break everything between them—
Kael arrived.
And the moment he spoke—
The weight of the Rift, his past, his throne—
Meant nothing.
Because war was coming.
Again.
----
Kael was out of breath.
Which meant one thing.
He had been running.
And Kael never ran.
His cloak whipped behind him, his silver hair sticking to his sweat-damp forehead.
But his eyes—
His dark, serious eyes—
Held nothing but urgency.
"Aric."
He barely paused before speaking.
"The nobles know."
Lira swore under her breath.
Aric's shoulders stiffened.
"What do you mean?"
Kael's jaw tightened.
"I mean, scouts have spotted banners moving through the valley," he said. "And not just one house. Several."
The words hit like a hammer.
Several houses.
Not just a single noble force.
Not just one lord seeking revenge.
This was bigger.
This was a reckoning.
Lira ran a hand through her hair.
"How long?"
"Days. Maybe less."
Kael's voice was grim.
"We're not ready for this, Aric."
Aric felt it then.
The old fire.
The cold clarity.
The part of him that had always been a warlord.
The part of him that had never forgotten how to fight.
He had conquered Eldermere with steel.
But now, he would have to hold it with fire.
And if the nobles wanted a warlord—
They would get one.
----
Night had fallen over Eldermere.
But the storm had not passed.
Aric stood alone on the village wall, staring out at the twisting sky.
The clouds churned, unnatural, pulsating with deep blue light.
Lightning did not crack.
Thunder did not roll.
The air hummed.
Like a voice at the edge of sound.
His hands gripped the cold stone.
And the Rift—
The Rift gripped back.
It had whispered to him before.
In the dark.
In his dreams.
But this—
This was different.
This was not an invitation.
This was not a choice.
This was a command.
"Take it back."
Aric's breath hitched.
The words slithered through his veins.
Not spoken aloud.
Not a sound.
A certainty.
An expectation.
An inevitability.
"Take what back?" he whispered.
The Rift did not answer.
It did not need to.
Because Aric already knew.
He had seen it.
In the visions.
In the ruins of his lost empire.
The throne of bone and blood.
The crown that had been stolen.
The empire that had burned.
And the traitor who had ended it all.
Aelthar.
That was his name.
That was his past.
And the Rift wanted it reclaimed.
Not later.
Now.
Aric's grip on the stone tightened.
His pulse matched the rhythm of the Rift.
A slow, deliberate, thundering beat.
He could feel it.
The weight of the past pressing against the present.
The Rift was not waiting anymore.
It was demanding.
And Aric—
For the first time—
Did not know if he could resist it.
Then, from the darkness—
A horn sounded.
Deep.
Distant.
A warning.
Because something was coming.
Something worse than the Rift.
----
Kael's voice shattered the silence.
"Aric!"
He turned sharply.
Kael was running toward him, cloak whipping behind him.
His face was set, grim, serious.
Not afraid.
Prepared.
Aric descended from the wall.
"What is it?"
Kael's jaw tightened.
His words were short.
Brutal.
"Scouts returned. It's not just the nobles marching."
Aric felt it before Kael even finished.
A shift in the air.
A tremor in the ground.
And beyond the valley—
Beyond the Burning Horizon—
Another army had come.
Not nobles.
Not knights.
Not anything Eldermere had prepared for.
They moved like a shadow.
They carried no banners.
They did not march in formation.
They did not ride under crests of gold.
They moved with the storm.
With the whispers of the Rift itself.
Lira joined them at the gate.
Her eyes scanned the distance, narrowing.
"That's not a noble force," she murmured.
Kael exhaled.
"No."
His voice was low.
"It's something worse."
And then—
The first shape emerged from the darkness.
A figure, clad in jagged armor, dripping with Rift light.
Behind him, others followed.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
And at their center—
A man rode forward.
Not a king.
Not a lord.
Something else.
Something familiar.
Aric's pulse pounded.
The Rift burned in his veins.
Because he knew—
Before they even spoke—
Before they raised their weapons—
That these were not just invaders.
These were followers.
Not of the nobles.
Not of the gods.
But of Aelthar.
His name.
His past.
His people.
And they had come to reclaim their king.
Whether he was ready or not.