Velmiris was alive again.
But it was not the city Aric remembered.
The ruins had reassembled, stone by stone, yet they had not returned to what they once were. The buildings were taller, their foundations pulsing with dark veins of Rift energy, their towers adorned with symbols that no longer belonged to any written language of men.
The streets shimmered with an unnatural glow, the air thick with something that made the skin prickle—as if the city itself was breathing.
This was not just a city.
It was an extension of the Rift.
Aelthar stood at its center.
Because that was who he was now.
The moment he had spoken the name, the moment he had taken his place upon the throne, Aric had ceased to exist.
The Rift had embraced him.
And he had embraced it in return.
Aelthar exhaled slowly, his fingers pressing against the arms of his throne. He could feel the city beneath him, the way it pulsed in rhythm with his breath, the way its very foundation was tied to him now.
This was no longer about reclaiming a lost empire.
This was about reshaping the world.
But before he could move forward—
A voice shattered the silence.
"Get up."
Aelthar lifted his gaze.
Kael stood at the foot of the throne.
His sword was drawn.
And his eyes—were filled with fire.
-----
"Get. Up."
Kael's voice was rough, raw, something on the edge of breaking.
Aelthar didn't move. He studied the man before him, his oldest ally, his closest friend—the one who had fought beside him from the beginning.
And now, the one who was ready to kill him.
Kael's hands were steady, but his breath wasn't.
Aelthar could see it—the way his chest rose and fell too sharply, the way his jaw clenched, the way his shoulders trembled.
He was angry.
But beneath that anger, buried so deep that he barely let it show—
He was afraid.
Not of Aelthar's power.
Not of the Rift.
He was afraid of losing Aric forever.
Aelthar tilted his head. "You already know the answer, Kael."
"Say it anyway," Kael bit out. "Say it so I know."
Silence.
Then—
Aelthar slowly rose from his throne.
The Rift pulsed in response, the very air around him shivering with power. His voice was calm, steady—final.
"You are looking at him."
Kael closed his eyes for a fraction of a second.
Then he lunged.
The sword sang through the air, aimed directly at Aelthar's chest.
And Aelthar let him come.
He did not move.
He did not flinch.
He simply raised a hand.
The moment the blade touched him—
The Rift lashed out.
A shockwave rippled through the room, hurling Kael backward like he had been struck by a giant's hand. His body slammed into the stone floor, his breath leaving him in a harsh, gasping choke.
Aelthar lowered his arm.
Kael did not rise immediately. He was breathing hard, his sword still clutched in his hand, but his shoulders shook.
Not with pain.
With rage.
With grief.
"You were supposed to be better than this," Kael rasped, pushing himself onto his hands and knees. "You were supposed to be our king, not theirs."
Aelthar stepped forward.
"I am something greater."
Kael let out a hollow laugh. It was bitter.
"You sound just like them," he muttered.
Aelthar frowned. "Them?"
Kael lifted his head.
And his next words struck harder than any blade.
"The ones who betrayed you."
-----
The words rattled in Aelthar's chest.
He didn't show it. He didn't let it reach his expression.
But Kael's words sank deep.
Because for a brief moment, he saw it too.
The past. The war. The empire he had built, and the way it had all crumbled beneath his hands. The men and women who had once sworn themselves to him—who had turned on him in the end.
Because they had feared him.
Because they had seen him as something else.
Because they had seen him exactly as Kael did now.
Aelthar's hands curled into fists.
He turned away.
But as he did—
Lira moved.
She stepped past Kael, past the Riftmarked, her steps slow, measured. She did not reach for her weapons.
She did not draw steel.
She simply stared at Aelthar.
And she shook her head.
"I should have known," she murmured.
Aelthar met her gaze.
She wasn't angry.
She wasn't afraid.
She was tired.
More than that—
She was done.
Lira turned on her heel.
And walked away.
Aelthar didn't stop her.
Kael saw her pass, saw the way she moved—and something inside him shattered.
"Lira—"
She didn't turn.
She didn't look back.
And Kael—for the first time in his life—was left standing alone.
Aelthar watched her go.
He did not call out.
He did not demand her loyalty.
Because in the end—
It didn't matter.
Not anymore.
-----
The storm did not stay contained.
As Aelthar sat upon the throne, the Rift's influence stretched outward, creeping beyond the borders of Velmiris like unseen fingers threading through the world.
The sky above the city remained split, its wound glowing with Riftlight, but now, that storm was spreading.
Across the distant hills, watchtowers crumbled.
Rivers once clear turned black with something unnatural.
In faraway kingdoms—where kings and warlords once thought themselves safe—the whispers began.
Men woke screaming from dreams of a throne they had never seen.
Seers and prophets, those who had long since lost their sight, suddenly turned their faces toward the east—and wept.
Because they knew.
Even if they did not understand it, they felt it.
Something had returned.
And the world had no name for it except one.
Aelthar.
-----
The throne room had changed.
Once a shattered ruin, it was now reborn, its obsidian pillars gleaming, its walls alive with veins of Riftlight pulsing like the lifeblood of something ancient and undying.
Aelthar stood at its center.
The Riftmarked had formed a line before him, their gazes lowered in reverence. Vaelthas knelt closest, his voice steady, unwavering.
"You have returned, my king. The world must kneel."
The words settled in the air.
Final. Absolute.
Aelthar did not react immediately.
His gaze lifted, taking in the throne room—the seat of an empire that had been stolen from him.
He should have felt triumph.
He should have felt satisfaction.
Instead—he felt nothing.
Or rather—
Something hollow.
It was not enough.
Because a throne was not a kingdom.
Because power, without dominion, meant nothing.
Aelthar exhaled slowly.
And then—he spoke.
"Gather them."
Vaelthas did not hesitate. "The lords?"
"All of them."
He turned his gaze toward the horizon, toward the Riftstorm spreading beyond the walls of Velmiris.
"The war does not end here."
The Rift pulsed.
And the world began to change.
-----
Far beyond Velmiris, in the noble courts of the west, the first messengers arrived in the dead of night.
They carried one message.
They did not speak it.
Because the moment the scrolls were unrolled, the words burned into the minds of those who read them.
No seal. No signature.
Only three words are written in Riftlight itself.
"I am returned."
Kings trembled.
Warriors readied their blades.
And the world braced for war.
Aelthar sat upon his throne, his gaze unmoving.
The Rift had chosen him.
The city had been reborn.
But now, there was only one path left.
To take back what was his.
No matter the cost.
The Rift pulsed once more.
And the war began.