The Crimson Temple had collapsed into itself, leaving behind only dust, scorched stone, and the stench of burned void magic. Smoke still curled from the crater, rising like a warning into the morning sky.
They stood at the edge of the ruin, bruised, bloodied, and exhausted.
No cheers.
No triumph.
Just silence.
Elric's hands trembled as he pulled a cracked mana crystal from the ground. "The seal's gone… but not erased. That was just one of the anchor sites."
Arienne wiped blood from her brow. "And that thing—the Executioner's fragment—it was just a sliver of what's coming."
Ael didn't respond. He stared into the smoldering ashes where Varen had fallen.
There was no body.
Only a broken mask.
Half sun. Half skull.
He picked it up, stared at it, then crushed it in his fist.
"He gave himself to the void," Ael said. "There are more like him."
"And one of them," Elric muttered, "just felt what we did."
—
Far across the continent, in the shadowed depths of a forgotten spire, a circle of candles flared to life.
The walls were lined with bones and inked flesh. The windows were sealed with wards and black cloth. The silence was absolute.
Until the glyphs on the central altar lit up in a harsh red glow.
A woman stepped into the light. Robed in spider-silk and crimson, her face hidden behind a smooth, expressionless veil.
She placed her hand on the altar.
The blood runes screamed.
"They tried to close the eye," she whispered. Her voice echoed unnaturally, layered like multiple souls speaking at once. "They severed the gate. He was there."
A slow breath.
"The Hollow King has returned."
Another voice spoke from the shadows—a voice old and dry, like dead leaves rustling.
"Shall we begin the Hunt?"
The woman nodded once.
"Yes."
She raised her hands, and the blood on the altar began to boil.
"We call the Hallowed Blades. The Crimson Choir. And the Sleeper of Chains."
The candle flames twisted into snarling skulls.
"The Hollow King has declared war."
—
Back in the desert, the survivors made camp on a ridge overlooking the remains of the temple. The sky had cleared, the stars stretched above them like frozen witnesses.
Arienne patched up Elric's arm, which had been fractured during the collapse. Lyra moved silently through the camp, setting traps and marking wards. She didn't speak, but her eyes never left the horizon.
Ael sat alone, sharpening his sword.
The blade had dulled slightly. He didn't mind.
The repetition gave him time to think.
The fight had changed him. Something in the temple—something in the way the Executioner had looked at him—had stirred a deeper layer of memory. Not from this life.
From his past.
The life before.
Before the magic. Before the reincarnation. Before his name was forgotten.
He had been a king.
But he hadn't been just ruthless.
There had been a time—fleeting—when he'd been… kind.
Loved.
He didn't know who they were. Faces flickered at the edge of his memory—children, a woman with silver hair, a knight laughing at his side—but they never stayed.
Still, he felt it.
Emotions.
Not sharp daggers of confusion or distant echoes of pain—but something real.
He felt grief for Varen.
He felt… guilt.
And somewhere, deep within, a terrifying spark of hope.
"Not sleeping?" Arienne asked, approaching quietly. She tossed him a waterskin.
"Don't need sleep," he muttered, catching it.
"Liar. You bled like the rest of us."
Ael took a sip. "It's not over."
"No. But you did good."
He didn't respond.
She crouched beside him, looking at the stars.
"When I first met you, you didn't flinch when a village was burning. You didn't speak unless it served a purpose. I thought you were just another heartless noble with power." She glanced at him. "Now I see someone who chose to save a child first, and a world second."
"I didn't save the boy," Ael said.
"No. But you wanted to."
That made him pause.
She stood and gave him a faint smile. "You're changing, Ael. Whether you like it or not."
He said nothing.
But he didn't look away.
—
The next morning, they set off again.
Their goal: the Kingdom of Virelles.
According to Elric, a vault hidden beneath Virelles contained one of the Seven Seals—the ancient locks created to restrain the Executioner's true form.
And the Crimson Choir would be there too.
Waiting.
Hunting.
The desert faded behind them.
The next chapter of their war was already writing itself in blood.