The Rift pulsed again.
A deep, reverberating hum shuddered through the stone beneath Aric's feet. The air was thick—heavy, charged, alive. He could feel the city breathing.
Or maybe… it wasn't the city at all.
Maybe it was him.
The Riftmarked still knelt before him, their armor dull in the dim, flickering glow of Rift-light threading through the cracks in the stone. They didn't move, didn't speak.
They simply waited.
The man—the one from his vision, the one who had once served him—remained motionless, his head bowed.
"Aelthar has returned," he had said.
The words still clung to the air, as if spoken into the bones of the city itself.
Aric clenched his fists, a sharp pulse of pain lancing through his skull. He could still hear the whispers—faint, layered, overlapping in a language he almost understood.
The Rift was watching.
The throne at the far end of the hall called to him.
It was untouched by time—sleek black stone, polished, flawless, waiting. It looked less like a seat and more like a presence, something that had always been there, would always be there.
He swallowed hard.
This was wrong.
This was a mistake.
And yet—
His feet moved forward.
The Riftmarked did not stop him.
Kael did.
"Aric." His voice was sharp, firm. "Don't."
Aric halted, the weight of his friend's words cutting through the haze in his mind. He turned slightly, his eyes locking onto Kael's.
Kael's jaw was tight, his stance tense. He wasn't just wary. He was afraid.
"You don't have to do this," Kael said. "You don't have to listen to them."
Aric's fingers twitched. "I'm not listening to them."
Kael's gaze flicked to the Riftmarked, then back to him. "Then what the hell are you listening to?"
Aric didn't answer.
Because he didn't know.
----
Aric took another step forward.
The Rift pulsed—and the world shifted.
For the second time, the ruins disappeared. The shattered columns and broken walls mended themselves. The air turned warm, thick with incense and the distant murmur of voices.
He was in Velmiris.
But not the ruins.
Not the city as it was now.
The city as it had been.
The throne hall was whole. The banners overhead swayed in an unfelt breeze, the sigils emblazoned on them far too familiar. He knew those emblems.
His emblems.
The chamber was not empty.
Figures moved, standing at attention—soldiers in blackened armor, his warriors. Advisors robed in dark silks, their expressions sharp, waiting for his command. The walls pulsed faintly with Rift energy, not fractured like they were now, but controlled. Harnessed.
This wasn't a vision.
This was a memory.
A memory he was inside of.
His breath came slower, heavier. The weight of the past settled onto his shoulders, like armor he had forgotten he wore.
And then—
The throne.
It wasn't empty.
There was a figure sitting there.
Aric inhaled sharply.
Because it was him.
Or rather—
It was Aelthar.
Aelthar looked down at him from the throne, his expression unreadable, his fingers curled loosely over the armrests. His features were sharper, his presence heavier—but it was him.
Not just in the face.
In presence.
The Rift pulsed again, and the past breathed.
Then, just as quickly as it came—
The vision fractured.
The voices faded.
The throne was empty once more.
The city was dead again.
But the weight on Aric's shoulders remained.
He staggered slightly, exhaling hard. His pulse thundered in his ears.
He knew.
Now, he knew.
Velmiris was his.
Had always been his.
The Riftmarked had not been calling him to rule.
They had been calling him to return.
----
The man before him—the knight, the warrior, the shadow of his past—watched him carefully.
"You saw it," the man said softly. It wasn't a question.
Aric didn't speak.
"You understand now."
His fingers curled into fists. "No."
The warrior tilted his head. "Lies do not suit you, my king."
"I'm not your king."
"You were," the man said. "And you will be again."
Aric exhaled slowly, forcing the haze of the vision away. His voice was steadier when he spoke again.
"Who are you?"
The warrior's lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite anything at all.
"Once, I was your sword," he said. "Your knight. Your general. I carried your banners, fought your wars, spilled my blood for you."
The words rang with truth. Aric could almost hear them echo in his bones.
A name surfaced at the back of his mind.
Unbidden. Unwelcome.
Vaelthas.
The name struck him like a blade.
His stomach turned.
He knew that name.
Not from books. Not from stories.
From his mouth.
From his past.
"That's not possible," Aric muttered.
Vaelthas watched him. "It is. It always was."
Silence.
Then—
"You were supposed to be dead," Aric said.
Vaelthas tilted his head slightly. "So were you."
The Rift pulsed again.
Aric's breath hitched.
Because Vaelthas was right.
This was not a matter of history.
This was not a matter of forgotten kingdoms or lost rulers.
This was unfinished.
The Rift had not let him die.
The Rift had not let any of them die.
His rule had not ended.
It had been interrupted.
And now, the Rift was setting the pieces back into place.
Vaelthas stepped forward, his gaze heavy.
"It is time, Aelthar," he said. "Take your throne."
The throne pulsed.
The Rift whispered.
And Aric knew—
The past was no longer waiting.
It was here.
----
The air shifted.
Tension coiled tight between them, thick as steel wire.
Aric barely registered the Riftmarked still kneeling in perfect silence, or the slow, steady pulse of the Rift running through the stone beneath his feet. His focus was locked on Vaelthas—the warrior who had once been his general, his sword, his right hand.
And now, a ghost in armor, demanding fealty.
But before Aric could answer, before he could even begin to untangle the storm in his mind—
Kael moved.
The clash of steel rang through the ruined chamber as Kael unsheathed his blade and pointed it directly at Vaelthas's throat.
"Enough," Kael growled. "I don't give a damn what you are or where you came from. If you try to put him on that throne, I'll carve your spine out myself."
The Riftmarked warriors reacted instantly.
A dozen hands went to their weapons, shifting into defensive stances, bodies poised to strike. But Vaelthas did not move. He simply tilted his head, eyes gleaming beneath his helm as if examining something amusing.
Then he exhaled softly. "Loyalty," he murmured. "How quaint."
"Not loyalty," Kael spat. "Sanity."
His grip on his sword was tight, knuckles white. Aric could see it—the sheer rage in his posture, in his eyes. This wasn't just anger.
It was terror.
Kael wasn't afraid of Vaelthas.
He was afraid of him.
Of what Aric might say.
Of what he might choose.
Aric felt the weight of that fear press against his ribs, squeezing tighter with every breath.
Because Kael wasn't wrong to be afraid.
He didn't know what the hell he was supposed to do.
Lira's voice broke the silence.
"Kael."
She didn't shout. Didn't demand. Just spoke his name—low, sharp, weighted.
Kael didn't lower his sword, but his jaw tightened. "You don't see what's happening here?" he snapped, still not taking his eyes off Vaelthas. "You don't see what they're trying to do?"
Lira's gaze flickered to Aric. Then to Vaelthas. Then back to Kael.
And Aric realized—she didn't have an answer.
She didn't trust this.
But she didn't trust herself to fight it, either.
Because part of her—some small, dangerous part of her—wanted to see what would happen if Aric took that throne.
Kael's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.
"Aric," he said. "Tell me you're not considering this."
Aric's throat felt tight. He wasn't sure what he was considering anymore.
But before he could answer—
The Rift pulsed.
The shadows at the edges of the chamber shifted.
And something else spoke his name.
----
The voice slithered through the chamber.
Not from Vaelthas.
Not from the Riftmarked.
Not from anywhere.
It came from the stone itself.
"Aelthar."
Aric's breath hitched.
It wasn't a whisper. Not like the Rift's murmurs, not like the ghosts of the past pressing against his mind.
This voice was sharp. Cold. Deliberate.
And worse—it was familiar.
A shiver crawled down his spine. He turned sharply, searching for the source.
The hall was empty.
Except—
The shadows at the far end of the throne room were moving.
Kael tensed. "What the fuck is that?"
Aric didn't answer. He couldn't.
A figure stepped forward.
Not Vaelthas. Not a Riftmarked.
Something else.
It was tall—impossibly tall, its form shifting, as if it wasn't fully bound to this world. The edges of its body blurred, flickering between existence and nothingness. Its face was hidden, obscured by something worse than darkness.
But Aric knew it was looking at him.
And he knew, deep in his bones—
This thing had been waiting for him.
Vaelthas did not react.
Which meant he had expected this.
Which meant this was part of whatever the hell was happening.
The figure tilted its head. When it spoke, its voice was like splintering ice.
"You took too long."
The Rift pulsed. The throne shuddered.
And Aric felt something deep in his chest snap.
Because he remembered this voice.
Not from dreams.
Not from visions.
But from his past.
----
The moment Aric took a step back, the shadows lurched forward.
The figure wasn't human. It wasn't alive.
But it moved like something that had once been both.
Aric's breath stilled.
Vaelthas knelt.
The Riftmarked did the same.
Even Lira and Kael—for all their resistance, all their doubts—did not move.
Because whatever was standing in front of them was beyond any of them.
It didn't speak again.
It didn't need to.
Because something else was happening.
The stone beneath them trembled, the cracks in the floor splitting wider. The Rift light running through the city flared brighter, pulsing, calling.
And then—
A doorway opened.
Not a door of wood or stone.
A fracture.
A tear in the fabric of reality itself.
It led downward—into the dark, into the unknown, into the past.
The Rift wasn't just calling him.
It was leading him.
And for the first time since he had arrived in this ruined city—
Aric realized he was standing at the threshold of something bigger than himself.
Something that had started long before he was born.
Something that had been waiting for him to come back.
His fingers twitched.
The figure in the dark waited.
Vaelthas waited.
Kael and Lira stood frozen, waiting for him to make a choice.
And Aric knew—this was it.
This was the moment.
Take a step forward—
And embrace what the Rift wanted from him.
Or walk away—
And leave the past behind.
The Rift pulsed.
The shadows shifted.
The throne behind him stood empty.
Waiting.
And Aric—
Took a step.