The world held its breath.
The Rift's final pulse shuddered through the city, its tremors sinking deep into the bones of the ruined capital. Aric stood at the center of it all—his hand still raised, his pulse hammering against his ribs.
And before him—they knelt.
The Riftmarked warriors, their darkened armor streaked with age and the dust of forgotten wars, lowered their heads in perfect unison. Their blades—ancient, tarnished relics from another era—were planted into the stone, a silent vow of fealty.
It was not a ritual.
It was recognition.
It was worship.
The leader of the warriors—Vaelthas—lifted his gaze, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his helm.
"It is done."
The words rang through the hall, through the ruins, through the Rift itself.
Aric felt the weight of them press against his chest, a sensation both foreign and familiar.
He should have felt horror.
He should have felt doubt.
Instead—
He felt whole.
The Riftmarked did not move. They remained where they were—waiting for his word.
Waiting for him to become what they already believed him to be.
Aelthar.
The name curled through his mind like a brand pressed into flesh.
His breath hitched.
It was no longer just a whisper.
It was who he was.
Or who he had always been.
----
The Riftstorm howled.
The noble army had halted.
Lord Darius Valcroix sat atop his warhorse, his expression cold, calculating. He had not drawn his sword. He had not moved forward.
But he had not retreated either.
The Riftmarked warriors rose to their feet, their glowing eyes locked onto the nobles—watching, assessing, waiting.
The two forces stood in perfect opposition.
The living.
The dead.
The past.
The present.
Valcroix's lips curled in quiet disdain. "Do you think this will change anything?" he called out. "You raise the dead. You play with ancient powers. And yet, you are still just a man."
Silence.
Then—Aric spoke.
His voice was low, even. But it carried over the ruins like a roll of thunder.
"You are mistaken, Lord Valcroix."
He stepped forward.
The Rift reacted.
The ground beneath him cracked, dark veins of energy threading through the stone, pulsating with something alive.
And then—the ruined city trembled.
Not from an attack.
Not from battle.
From something waking.
Valcroix's horse reared back slightly, but the noble lord held firm. His soldiers, however—they were not as steady.
Aric could see it in their eyes.
Fear.
Because this was no longer just a war for a throne.
This was something else.
"You kneel to dead kings," Valcroix spat. "You bow to an empire that was buried for a reason. Do you think history will accept this? That the world will allow it?"
Aric tilted his head. "History does not get to decide what I become."
The Rift shuddered.
And in that moment—Valcroix understood.
This was not a man standing before him.
This was something more.
Something worse.
----
Aric exhaled.
The Rift's hum filled his chest, vibrating beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. It was no longer distant.
It was inside him.
The whispers had become words. The words had become commands.
And he was listening.
But before he could speak—before he could decide—Kael's voice cut through the air.
"Aric."
It was not a plea.
It was not a question.
It was a warning.
Aric turned.
Kael's blade was drawn.
The sword was not steady. His grip was tight, his knuckles white—but there was hesitation.
Aric felt that hesitation like a blade against his throat.
"You're not thinking straight," Kael said, his voice low. "You're letting it in. You're letting it win."
Aric's jaw tightened. "I know what I'm doing."
Kael's breath came sharper. "Do you?"
The words struck harder than they should have.
Because Aric didn't have an answer.
Because for the first time… he wasn't sure.
He could feel the Rift pressing deeper, threading through his veins like something both ancient and inevitable.
And Kael saw it.
He saw it before Aric even realized it himself.
"You think this is control?" Kael said, taking a step forward. "You think this is power?"
Aric exhaled slowly. "It's not about power."
Kael's expression darkened.
"Then what the hell is it?"
Silence.
And for the first time—Aric had no answer.
Kael shook his head. "You're not the only one who's fought for this, Aric. We bled for you. We killed for you. And now—"
His voice cracked.
"Now you're letting the thing that took everything from you turn you into it."
The Rift pulsed again.
And Aric felt his chest tighten.
Because Kael was right.
Because Kael was wrong.
Because both things could be true.
Kael's sword didn't waver. "Tell me I'm wrong."
Aric inhaled sharply.
The Rift whispered.
"You are not wrong."
But neither was he.
The moment hung between them.
Kael's blade, Aric's choice, the Rift's pull.
And behind them—the throne still waited.
----
The sky ripped apart.
Not like a storm.
Not like something natural.
It tore open like flesh, a jagged wound in the heavens, pulsing with rift light so bright it seared the edges of the ruined city.
And from that wound—something stepped forward.
It had no true shape, no form that belonged in this world. It was a thing of shifting blackness, twisting shadows wrapped in the raw, unfathomable power of the Rift.
And yet—Aric knew it.
Not by name.
But by feeling.
By the way, it looked at him, despite having no eyes.
By the was,y it spoke to him, despite having no voice.
"You are no longer waiting, Aelthar."
The Rift roared.
The ground beneath them fractured, stone splitting open as tendrils of black energy coiled around the ruins, crawling across the broken city like veins reattaching to a corpse.
It wasn't just speaking to him.
It was binding to him.
The Rift was no longer separate from him.
It was inside him.
And the rest of the world could feel it.
----
The ruins of Velmiris shuddered.
A low, grinding sound rumbled through the ancient streets, like stone grinding against stone, like something waking from a thousand-year slumber.
Buildings that had collapsed centuries ago began to shift.
Walls reassembled.
Towers rose.
The throne room itself repaired its fractures, stone knitting back together as if time itself was reversing.
Aric staggered.
This was not a vision.
This was not a trick.
The Rift was rebuilding his city.
His empire.
And then—
The throne itself changed.
Once black and ruined, its surface glowed, veins of Riftlight threading through the obsidian. Its shape was no longer cracked and jagged—it was whole.
It was waiting.
Vaelthas dropped to one knee.
The Riftmarked warriors followed.
As one—they bowed.
"Your throne, my king," Vaelthas murmured.
The Rift pulsed.
The throne called to him.
And Aric—
Could not stop himself from moving.
----
Kael's voice cut through the air.
"Aric!"
Aric's step faltered.
Kael's sword was still raised, his face twisted with something between anger and grief.
"Do you even hear me anymore?" Kael demanded. "Do you even know who the fuck you are?"
Aric turned slowly.
The Rift's hum vibrated inside his bones, its power curling through his veins like a second heartbeat.
But Kael—
Kael was still there.
Still himself.
Still trying to stop him.
"Say it," Kael snapped. "Say your fucking name."
Silence.
And then—Lira spoke.
But not to Aric.
To Kael.
"He's already chosen," she whispered.
Kael's jaw clenched. "No."
His grip on his sword tightened. "Not yet. Not until I hear him say it."
More silence.
The Rift pulsed again.
The throne awaited.
Aric stepped forward.
And this time—he did not stop.
His hands touched the arms of the throne, his breath slow, measured, final.
He sat.
And the Rift closed around him.
The city trembled.
And in that moment—the last of Aric was gone.
He opened his mouth—
And spoke the name the world had forgotten.
"I am Aelthar."
The Rift roared in triumph.
And Velmiris was reborn.