Chapter 5 — The Thorns Beneath the Throne
The wind howled through the skeletal trees, carrying with it the scent of ash and blood. Veyra walked in silence beside Kael, her eyes fixed on the crumbling path ahead. The once-gilded banners of the kingdom fluttered above them like dying wings—blackened, torn, and forgotten.
They had returned to the ruins of Eldryn's court. What was once a palace of golden spires and sacred oaths now lay as a mausoleum, half-swallowed by the forest. Vines choked the archways. Statues of old kings were shattered, their heads strewn like discarded masks.
"Are you certain this is where the trail leads?" Kael asked, adjusting the grip on his sword.
Veyra nodded, touching a hand to the sigil etched into her gauntlet—a flicker of red shimmered. "The arcane residue here is fresh. Something... someone used the old rites of passage. He passed through this place no more than a day ago."
Kael frowned. "The man from the garden?"
She hesitated. "No. Another. Or perhaps... the same, split across threads."
They moved through the shattered halls. The stone seemed to whisper under their boots. Murals peeled from the walls, revealing symbols of a forgotten faith—a god with six wings, blindfolded, surrounded by thorns.
A soft crack drew their attention. A figure emerged from the far corridor—hooded, limping slightly, one hand tucked beneath his cloak.
"Hold," Kael called out, blade raised.
The figure stopped. "You're late," he rasped.
Kael tensed. "Do I know you?"
The man slowly pulled down his hood.
Veyra inhaled sharply. His face was pale, streaked with old scars. But the eyes—those eyes glowed faintly violet. The same glow from the sanctum mirror. From the storm.
"I've seen you before," she said quietly.
The man gave a ghost of a smile. "We've met. Or will. Depending on your thread."
He stepped forward, revealing a pendant around his neck—shaped like a dying star. A relic only the Chronoseers of Teralune carried.
"You're a time-weaver," Kael said, voice low.
"I was," the man replied. "Now I'm a consequence."
Before they could ask more, the air trembled.
A scream tore from beneath the palace—a sound like metal screaming and water boiling all at once.
"The vault," Veyra whispered.
The ground burst open.
Out of the crypt below rose a creature bound in chains of obsidian. Its form was vaguely human, but its skin was translucent, showing writhing shadows beneath. Multiple faces—crying, laughing, silent—flickered across its skull. It was a Soulthorn—a creature born from forbidden resurrection, animated by grief and warped time.
The time-weaver turned to them. "You must seal it. The spell is breaking. And when it does... it will feed on the futures we've yet to live."
Kael rushed forward. "How do we stop it?"
The weaver pulled a scroll from his cloak, tossing it to Veyra. "You'll need her blood," he said, nodding toward her. "And a truth she hasn't yet admitted."
Before they could question him, he vanished—fading like mist in morning light.
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Deep beneath the ruins, a girl sat quietly in a sealed chamber lit by a single orb of fire.
She was young, no more than seventeen, and chained by silver bands. Her hair fell in white curls, her eyes closed. Around her, glyphs pulsed in rhythm with her breath.
She whispered a name.
"Kael…"
The orb flickered. The seals on her wrists tightened.
"I remember you."
And in her lap, a flower bloomed—black petals, rimmed in red.
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