Chapter 138
Malakor's ambitions had never ended with Varynthar. The throne had merely been the first step toward something far greater.
He wanted kingdoms to kneel before him and nations to surrender to his armies until every crown on the continent lay beneath his feet and only one ruler remained.
Him.
That ambition had eventually brought him to the Veiled Thorn, an organization that desired the same ultimate outcome, though they intended to achieve it through very different means.
Its leaders, the siblings Vivienne and Silas, were brilliant and ruthless mages who considered morality little more than an inconvenience.
Through their bloodline, they had inherited fragments of forbidden knowledge once guarded by the ancient mages of Ardentia, secrets that should have disappeared along with the civilization that created them.
Together, they had forged a simple agreement.
Malakor would conquer the continent, bringing every kingdom beneath Varynthar's rule until every soul bowed before him.
In return, the Veiled Thorn would receive complete freedom within his domain.
They would have no laws restricting them, no authorities interfering with their work, and no one questioning what they chose to do.
Whatever experiments they wished to conduct, whatever forbidden magic they wanted to pursue, and whatever horrors they unleashed in the process, Varynthar would neither restrain nor judge them.
A kingdom for a throne and a continent for their research.
It was a bargain forged not from trust, but from mutual greed, and for years, it had served them both well.
Malakor wanted dominion over kingdoms, but the Veiled Thorn wanted something far greater.
Vivienne and Silas had no interest in crowns or politics. To them, kingdoms were nothing more than obstacles to be exploited on the path toward their true ambition: the Celestial Harmony Project.
They intended to use it to rule the world itself, creating a reality in which people would willingly surrender themselves and kneel at their feet.
They did not merely want armies or conquered territories.
They wanted dark magic to seep into the souls of living beings until their will belonged to them, until people willingly submitted to their rule and watched their own world collapse beneath it.
At the heart of that ambition was the Heartforge, the ancient Ardentian core believed to be the final component required to power the Celestial Harmony Project.
According to the fragmented records they had recovered, the Heartforge possessed an ability far more terrifying than simple destruction.
Whoever controlled it could manipulate the souls of living beings, bending their will and forcing them to act according to the owner's desires.
Combined with the Celestial Harmony Project, such power could transform their creation from a weapon into an instrument capable of reshaping the world itself.
Memories could be rewritten. Free will could be suppressed. Souls could be bent until obedience felt like their own choice.
The Veiled Thorn had enormous plans for that power.
The problem was that they knew what they were searching for, but they had no idea where it was hidden.
The surviving Ardentians had erased every record, map, and clue that could lead to the Heartforge, burying the knowledge beneath layers of ancient enchantments.
For decades, the Veiled Thorn searched without success.
Their ancestors had once come dangerously close to obtaining the relic, but the Ardentians had thwarted their efforts before they could reach it.
Eventually, Vivienne and Silas changed their strategy.
If the Heartforge could not be found, they would force it to reveal itself.
With Christopher Arden feeding them Eryndor's secrets, their plan unfolded piece by piece.
Villages were razed not because they wanted the territory, but because every attack stretched Eryndor's forces thinner.
They knew the Magic Tower, even under Theodore's command, could not defend every border indefinitely.
Viremont was pressured from the west while Eryndor slowly bled from within.
Sooner or later, Archmage Theodore would exhaust every conventional option available to him. And when that happened, he would have no choice but to reveal the one secret he had guarded for decades: the last surviving Ardentian heir.
Vivienne had predicted it.
She simply had not expected to meet the girl herself.
When Cassiane struck her during the rescue of Prince Lucien, the magic that erupted from the young woman had been instinctive, ancient, and unmistakably Ardentian. Vivienne recognized it immediately.
She wasn't merely a descendant.
She wasn't carrying a fragment of the bloodline.
She was an heir.
With that realization, everything fell into place.
The Archmage had done exactly what Vivienne had anticipated. In his desperate attempt to protect Eryndor and its people, he had unknowingly led the last surviving Ardentian directly toward the Heartforge.
The Veiled Thorn had followed them in silence, watching from the shadows and waiting patiently until the relic was finally found.
Then they struck.
They had deliberately sent the people capable of stopping them toward Viremont, manipulating events until the borders were sealed and the entire kingdom was transformed into a vast prison.
By the time anyone realized what was happening, the people who could have intervened were trapped far from Eryndor.
Everything had unfolded exactly as they had envisioned.
King Alaric remained a puppet beneath the influence of dark enchantments. Eryndor's defenses had been shattered. The Magic Tower had been reduced to a hollow shell. And the wretched girl carrying the cursed Ardentian bloodline was dead.
Yet none of those victories pleased Malakor quite as much as the thought of the man imprisoned beneath his palace.
The High Arcanist.
His half-brother.
Chained, beaten, and bloodied.
For years, Malakor had imagined this moment. He had not wanted Rhaevan dead merely for the sake of removing a threat. He wanted to break him, slowly and methodically, until the man who had unknowingly carried the bloodline Malakor had spent his entire life trying to destroy was reduced to nothing.
A slow smile crept across his face.
At last, he had him.
Malakor had to admit that the man was extraordinary.
Even grievously wounded, Rhaevan had fought like a cornered beast, leaving a trail of broken soldiers behind him before they finally managed to overwhelm him.
Restraining him had required nearly half of Varynthar's reserve of modified Solithium, along with every ounce of Vivienne's mastery over binding magic.
And still, Rhaevan had never begged.
He had never pleaded.
He had never broken.
Malakor found that almost admirable.
His fingers tapped lazily against the armrest before he finally spoke.
"Ruther."
The General of the Royal Knights stepped forward immediately and bowed.
"At your service, Your Highness."
"Take me to our prisoner."
Ruther lowered his head. "As you wish, Your Highness. I shall make the arrangements."
The deepest chambers beneath Varynthar's palace had not been built to hold ordinary prisoners. They had been built to break legends.
Far below the castle, a maze of narrow stone corridors twisted through the bedrock, guarded by heavy gates and an oppressive silence that seemed to swallow every sound. The air grew heavier with every step, carrying the faint metallic scent of magic and something darker that lingered beneath it.
The final passage was lined with crystalline conduits that pulsed with an eerie violet light.
Refined Solithium, altered through the Veiled Thorn's forbidden craft, flowed through them and filled the corridor with an oppressive aura designed specifically to torment mages.
It drained mana relentlessly while inflicting a constant, agonizing strain upon the body.
Few could survive prolonged exposure.
Fewer could remain sane.
At the end of the corridor stood a massive iron gate veined with violet mineral and crawling with dark runes.
Behind it sat a solitary figure.
Rhaevan's bare torso was covered in bruises, dried blood, and countless marks from the lashes that had torn across his skin.
Heavy chains bound his wrists, their black metal infused with dark magic that pulsed against his flesh and bit deeper whenever he moved.
Massive Solithium shackles secured his ankles to the stone floor, ensuring that even the slightest attempt to draw upon his magic would be met with another wave of pain.
The chamber had been designed with one purpose: to destroy everything that remained of a person.
The Solithium drained his strength, the curses ravaged his body, and the darkness was meant to consume whatever remained of his mind.
Yet somehow, Rhaevan endured.
He looked nothing like the composed High Arcanist whom the kingdoms had once admired. His dark hair hung untidily across his bloodied face, and a deep gash traced a crimson line down his cheek. His breathing was labored, each breath clearly costing him effort, but it remained steady.
He was still standing.
Not because the chains held him upright.
Because he refused to fall.
The heavy iron gate groaned open.
King Malakor stepped inside, clad in black armor lined with enchanted Solithium-resistant plating that shielded him from the suppressive aura filling the chamber. Ruther followed closely behind him in identical armor.
Their footsteps echoed against the stone floor.
Only then did Rhaevan slowly lift his head.