Valtherion sat alone upon the throne carved from bone and obsidian, deep in the Sanctum of Silence.
For centuries, he had ruled without voice or warmth, a wraith-king in a palace built from memory and sorrow. Though the city stirred with ancient energies and old wards trembled, he remained still—watching. Waiting. Listening.
He felt her.
Not just as a scent on the wind or a pulse in the ley-lines. No. Eira was more than a presence—she was a beacon, a thread that pulled at his very soul. Every step she took toward the Hollow Heart echoed in his blood.
She was awakening it all.
The truth.
The curse.
The love he thought buried.
He pressed his fingers against his temples, the cold of his skin doing little to soothe the storm beneath. Memories clawed their way up from the depths like phantoms:
Vaelaria, laughing under the blood moon.
Vaelaria, crying as the crown of thorns was placed upon his brow.
Vaelaria, dying in his arms.
But it was not Vaelaria who approached him now. It was Eira.
And she was not the same.
He had tried to convince himself that Eira was merely a vessel, a reincarnation of the past. That by guiding her, he could rewrite history and undo the failure that haunted him.
But now… now he knew better.
She had her own fire. Her own will. And her presence unraveled everything he had carefully kept buried.
Valtherion rose from the throne.
His cloak swept behind him like a river of shadow. The hall's ancient torches burst alight as he passed, reacting to his unease. The pillars whispered his name. The city stirred, sensing its king on the move.
He descended through the layers of the Sanctum, the walls pulsing with sigils of blood and soul. As he passed a mirror, he caught his reflection—and for a moment, did not recognize himself.
His once-pale hair, now streaked with silver. Eyes once radiant with power, now dulled by centuries of grief. Yet still regal. Still terrifying.
Still bound.
He touched the obsidian collar at his throat—a symbol of the pact he made with the gatekeepers of the void. To protect his people, he had chained himself. To preserve the city, he had sealed away his heart.
And now Eira threatened to unbind it all.
At the edge of the sanctum lay a chamber only he could enter.
The Vault of Regret.
He stepped inside.
Thousands of candles floated in midair, each flame a memory, a sealed moment in time. He walked among them, pausing before a flickering blue flame that shimmered with sorrow.
With a whisper, he called the memory forth.
It unfolded like mist.
He stood again in the garden of bone and crystal, centuries ago. Vaelaria stood before him, cloaked in mourning black, her eyes rimmed with silver tears.
"Don't do this," she had begged. "There is still time to choose another path."
"There is not," he had answered. "The council has already voted. The blood pact is the only way."
"You're sacrificing yourself."
"No," he'd said, brushing her hair back. "I'm sacrificing us."
In the memory, she had leaned into his chest, her voice breaking. "Then I will follow you into darkness."
And she had.
Her final breath, her soul, had bound the seal that held the Hollow Heart closed.
Valtherion ended the memory with a flick of his hand.
He could not bear to watch her die again.
But now, she lived—in another form. Another soul. With a name he had never whispered until recently.
Eira.
The torches along the wall flared.
She was close. Too close.
He could feel the awakening stirring beneath the stone. The Hollow Heart, long dormant, throbbed with ancient hunger. If she reached it—if the seal broke—it would not just awaken his past.
It would awaken him.
All of him.
The part that still craved power.
The part that still loved her.
The part that would burn the world to hold her again.
A voice echoed from the shadows behind him.
"She comes to unmake you, Valtherion."
He did not flinch. "I know."
A figure emerged—cloaked in white, hood drawn low. One of the Watchers, bound to serve him until the end of days.
"Will you stop her?"
Valtherion turned, eyes glowing faintly red. "I will not harm her."
"That was not the question."
He clenched his jaw. "She is more than Vaelaria's echo. She has made her own choices. If she wishes to face the Hollow Heart… I will let her."
"She may not survive," the Watcher said.
"Then I will follow her into death."
Silence settled like dust.
The Watcher bowed. "Then all that remains is to wait."
Valtherion looked toward the great gate leading to the chamber of truth.
"She is not alone," he murmured. "Lucien is with her."
The words tasted bitter.
Lucien—his once-beloved general, now bonded to Eira by loyalty and something deeper. Valtherion could see it, feel it in the way Lucien spoke her name. The way he shielded her from everything—even from him.
Would she choose Lucien?
Or the shadows of her past?
He didn't know.
But he would not run from the answer.
He walked back to the throne and sat, folding his hands before him. "Let her come," he whispered to the city, to the bones, to the pulsing heart of the world.
"Let her see what I have become."