Chapter 65
Chapter
Sixty-Five
The sky beyond the Veil was red, not with the reflection of blood moons, but with the unholy fire that crowned the tower rising from its heart.
Twisted spires of stone and bone pierced the fog-drenched canopy like spears, their tips glowing with the embers of dark magic.
Around the perimeter, necrotic wards pulsed with a slow rhythm, synchronized with the corrupted heartbeat of the Rift that loomed miles away.
Kaen stood at the apex of the tower. Draped in robes of molten black threaded with crimson sigils, his crown was gone, replaced by a circlet of forged shadow given to him by Morcarion, the Shadow King Sovereign.
His eyes no longer burned merely with ambition; they shimmered with the fire of consumed power.
At his back stood the Circle of Eight, necromancers, mages, warlords, and twisted, dead former scholars of Asgar.
They were the forgotten, the scorned, the ones who had been cast out and now promised vengeance. They knelt before Kaen.
"It is time," Kaen said, his voice low and commanding.
The others bowed, though one, Artom, smiled behind her veil of bone-laced silk. She had once been a healer. Now her hands molded death like clay.
"We strike when the second moon crests the Rift," she said. "The Aether girl is not fully recovered. The Shadowborn has sealed the tear, yes, but at a cost. The world holds its breath. It will shatter easily."
Kaen's eyes drifted skyward. The Rift still glowed faintly, barely held in check. "And the Bearer has awakened. The Queen has not told them. They are unprepared."
A hunched figure at his side, cloaked in moss and ash, rasped, "Shall I loosen the Deepblood Dragons' Chain?"
Kaen shook his head slowly. "Not yet. We will unleash the Deepblood Dragons when the second signal burns. Let the sky bleed. Let them believe they still have time."
He turned to Maelor. "You will lead the next wave against the cliffs of Aeromir. Burn the Watcher’s Stone. Tear down the sigils of the old wards. Let the blood of the stormlines soak the earth."
"And the Queen?" Lyssara asked.
Kaen smiled. "Leave her to me."
Far below, dragons not born of any sacred lineage stirred in their pits, twisted creatures, bred in silence and shadow, fueled by necrotic flame. Their wings hissed as they spread against the storm winds. They would rise when he commanded.
Kaen raised his hand. A small flame sparked above his palm, black at the center, edged in red.
"The time of reckoning has come," he whispered. The circle echoed the words, chanting as the wind around them spun faster, tighter, hotter.
High above, the first of the twin moons crested the edge of the Rift, bathing the world in crimson light.