*********************
A memory.
Kaelen, younger, standing barefoot in front of a throne set ablaze. A man—his father—shouting from the flames.
"You'll never be loved as you are."
But Kaelen only smiled through the smoke, wearing crimson, eyes glittering.
"Then I'll make them love me anyway."
********************
The ruins of Ashengar still whispered of ash and betrayal. Smoke from the recent fires clung to the stones like old memories, and Kaelen stood at the edge of the courtyard, where shadow met sun, swathed in crimson and black.
He'd dressed for war—or theatre.
The cloak spilled from his shoulders like blood. Gold-threaded accents traced his cuffs, and a high collar flared dramatically behind his neck. His boots gleamed obsidian. Rings glinted on his fingers—each one pilfered from a kingdom that no longer existed. And his eyes… they were defiant.
"I thought we were trying to blend in," Naeven said from behind, arms crossed, her tone clipped.
Kaelen turned. "We are. I just refuse to blend into ugliness."
She exhaled sharply. "You look like a painted peacock."
He twirled, mock-serious. "Then may I dazzle the dungeons below."
They stood in the courtyard of Ashengar's lower cloister—a forgotten armory beneath the main keep. Word had reached them that Dren's old order had resurfaced here, scuttling in the tunnels like rats, whispering of relics and ruin. Kaelen had insisted they move now—before the trail vanished like smoke.
Naeven approached, her braid tied tight, runes chalked in pale white along her gauntlets. She eyed Kaelen's collar, then the twin daggers strapped to his thigh. "You're really going through with this?"
"I am," he said. "I have to. Caldus is alive. I felt it when he vanished."
"But you don't know where he is."
"No," Kaelen admitted. "But I know who will try to find him."
They moved into the catacombs.
Beneath the surface, the stones breathed heat and memory. Runes pulsed faintly along the archways. Ashengar's bones were old—its secrets older. They passed locked doors, broken shrines, and blood-scrawled sigils that pulsed when Kaelen neared them.
"You've been here before," Naeven said, noticing.
Kaelen didn't answer right away. His hand traced a burnt crest on the wall—an old sigil of royalty, faded beyond recognition.
"Once," he said. "Before the rebellion. Before everything burned."
"You were one of them," she said quietly.
He looked at her. "I was their heir. Until I told them to burn."
A pause stretched between them.
Then Naeven said, "You really are a peacock."
Kaelen laughed—genuinely. "And you, my dear, are a porcupine wrapped in prophecy."
She smirked. "Better a porcupine than a poet."
They reached the old vault.
It lay behind a gate etched with a seven-pointed star. Kaelen pressed his palm to the seal, and the metal sang beneath his skin.
From the darkness inside, something stirred.
"Ready?" Naeven asked, drawing her blade.
"No," Kaelen replied. "But I'm wearing red. Let them see me coming."
They entered.
Inside: dust, relics, bones. Echoes of the past curled like smoke in the air. And on the far wall—a mark. Fresh. A spiral thorn sigil, drawn in blood.
Kaelen stepped closer, lips parting. "He was here."
Naeven touched the mark. Her fingers trembled. "So was something else."
Just then, a low voice echoed from the shadow:
"He bleeds gold now."
They froze.
But when they turned, no one was there. Just air—and a single black feather drifting to the stone.
Kaelen bent to pick it up. His expression darkened.
"Come," he said, slipping it into his cloak. "The catacombs aren't empty. And Caldus isn't the only one changing."
They turned deeper into the dark, shoulder to shoulder.