Prologue 2 Thorne
Earlier, The Tidal Lands, Nightfall
The sea still reeks of blood and magic when we gather.
Not mortal blood—no.
This is older. Heavier.
The residue of SoulTakers burned back into the dark, of wards strained thin, of Nightfall holding by a thread because it always does.
We stand in the Tidal Lands, beneath a sky still bruised from the memory of our fallen Prime.
Kael is at the head of the chamber, storm-eyed and unbowed, the sea listening even now to the cadence of his breath. Phoebe’s presence within him hums quietly through the stones beneath our feet, new and bright and undeniable.
Alaric, too, is different now. Jules has changed him. Maybe even for the better.
But honestly, any change for the Dragon Lord can only be better.
“I asked you all here because, as you know, I have my viyella and my people to consider, and reconstruction takes every bit of attention I have,” Kael announces. “My mer-wardens have pushed the SoulTakers back for now. It is someone else’s turn to guard the crown.”
My entire body tightens.
I feel their attention shift to me like heat seeking kindling.
They all know what they think of Thorne, Demon Lord of the Broken Plains.
They think I burn everything I touch. That I destroy more than my share.
They are not wrong.
But they also know when Nightfall bleeds, I am the one who stands in the fire and does not retreat.
I would protect this realm until my last ember gutters out.
Not because I love it gently—but because I understand what it costs to keep the forges burning.
Because I know what happens if they fail.
Ours is the realm of secrets and dreams. We fuel the multiverse, and its survival relies solely on us.
Yes, it is true that I have said I would rather destroy Nightfall than kneel to the wrong ruler.
I stand by that.
It is not arrogance. It is not cruelty.
It is a refusal to settle.
The truth?
There is none among us who is fit to be Prime.
“Do we really still believe that any of us is worthy of filling his shoes?” I murmur.
The question hangs in the air like ash that refuses to settle.
Alaric moves first. His wings rustle softly, illusion sloughing from him like smoke peeling away from flame.
“Perhaps not,” he says carefully. “Nonetheless, Thorne, the shoes cannot remain empty.”
Dagan’s jaw sets.
The stone beneath our feet answers him with a low, restless groan, the bones of the realm shifting in uneasy agreement.
“We miss him too, brother,” Alaric adds, quieter now.
Kael says nothing.
He does not need to.
His silence carries weight—like the sea before a storm.
“Yes,” I say, voice rough. “We miss him. None more than I. He was my mentor, once.”
Pain lances hot and sharp. I’m used to it. I don’t flinch. And a humorless laugh scrapes from my throat.
“But do not mistake me, Alaric. I do not merely miss him. I am furious with him.”
Dagan turns toward me, frowning. The earth trembles, a slow, angry roll beneath us.
“He should never have fallen,” I continue. “He should never have left the crown silent. The balance broken. The Fates uncertain.”
I gesture sharply, fire flickering at my fingertips as my anger bleeds into the air.
“Everywhere I look, I see the rot the SoulTakers have sown. Doubt. Fear. The slow erosion of certainty.” My voice hardens. “My people whisper it in the Broken Plains. Yours whisper it in the tides and the skies. All of them say the same thing. What will become of us?”
I look at each of them as they weigh my words.
They think they understand the danger.
They do not.
“You worry about borders and villages,” I go on. “About fields and coasts and stone halls.” My gaze sharpens. “But my people live beneath the world. In the mines and the caverns. In the heat and dark. Miners, yes—but not for gold or steel.”
I clench my fist, fire snapping to life between my fingers before I force it back down.
“We know your importance to the realm, brother,” Alaric says gently.
The gentle tone breaks something in me.
“Not my importance!” I snap. “Theirs.”
I take a step forward, heat rolling off me in waves.
“It is my people who are being hunted first. Dragged from tunnels. Burned out of their homes. Taken in the night by SoulTaker raids that leave nothing but ash and silence behind.”
My voice roughens, fury scraping it raw.
“The Demons of the Broken Plains work beneath the surface of the world—do you understand that? Do you know what that means? Sometimes for months without seeing home, or hearth, or sky. They dig where no light reaches. They endure heat and dark and stone so the forges can burn.” I bare my teeth. “So dreams can be made.”
The fire in my chest twists, turning heavy, painful.
“They are not warriors. They are smiths. Keepers. Laborers. And they are dying so the multiverse can keep dreaming.”
The chamber stills.
Even the stones seem to hold their breath.
“Every universe feeds from us,” I say. “Dreams. Nightmares. Hope. Despair. Light and darkness alike. Without night, there can be no day. Without shadow, no form. Without fire—no spark.”
The Demon Lords of Nightfall know this.
The SoulTakers know this, too.
“A stolen dream is a tragedy. And the SoulTakers are greedy,” I snarl. “They do not want balance. They want everything. All the ore. All the magic and power. All the dreams and nightmares. They want them unwoven, stripped down, devoured.”
I turn slowly, meeting each of my brothers’ eyes in turn.
“If they succeed, The Ember Vein will close.”
The words land heavy.
“Darkness will not fall like a storm,” I continue grimly. “It will creep. Ignorance. Silence. A multiverse where there is no creative spark left to ignite love or invention or rebellion.”
I shake my head once.
“That is true annihilation. Not death—but nothingness.”
Silence follows. Deep. Absolute.
Then Dagan speaks, his voice slow and inevitable as tectonic shift.
“We know this, brother. And we will find an answer. Now, it is your turn, Thorne,” he says. “Are you prepared to do your duty?”
I look toward the chest where the fallen Prime’s crown waits.
Toward the burden no one wants—but someone must carry.
Fire answers in my blood.
“Always,” I say.
My gaze drifts to the chest at the center of the chamber.
The crown rests inside it, quiet and waiting. Watching.
Judging.
I exhale.
“Always, I will always answer the call when Nightfall needs me,” I repeat stronger.
Each of them murmurs and nods. I can feel their belief in me swell, and it is better than nothing.
Because the truth? I don’t know if I am the one the crown will choose.
What I do know?
The Broken Plains are dying.
Ashfell—my keep, my legacy—sits in ruin.
I have no time to mend it while I am holding the line against SoulTakers who claw at my borders night after night.
The forges where dreams are born—where hopes are shaped and set loose into the multiverse—must continue to burn.
They are my responsibility.
And the SoulTakers led by the fiend Idris would see them extinguished.
“I cannot allow the forges of my people to die out,” I say flatly.
“You are not alone, brother,” Kael says, steady as the tide.
I meet his gaze. “No. But you and Alaric have each gained your boon through your viyella.”
Phoebe.
Jules.
The Fates have smiled on them both.
And I could use some of that.
Alaric opens his mouth. “Thorne—about my plan to trick the Fates. It’s not what you think—”
I cut him off with a raised hand.
“No. It is exactly what I think.” My jaw tightens. “And it worked.”
They don’t deny it.
“So I will do the same,” I continue. “I will hide the crown. I will guard it until my turn is up. But first, I will go to Earth to find a human female of my own.”
The words taste like iron and flame.
“Thorne, finding a human isn’t what worked. Phoebe is my viyella, as Jules is to Alaric,” Kael says.
“Do not lecture me. You are not the only ones capable of gaining a female’s favor,” I growl.
Anger coils in my chest. Jealousy, perhaps, but I will not name it.
Not here. Not now.
Too much rides on this choice.
Nightfall hangs in the balance.
And if the Fates will not give me what I need—then I will take it.
I turn from the crown, from my brothers, from the shattered remains of the old order.
Earth awaits.
And somewhere there, a woman strong enough to stand in my fire is about to learn what it means to be chosen.