The candlelight flickered across the chamber walls as Raen sat cross-legged in the center of his nursery—alone. The servants had left for the night, but Raen hadn't closed his eyes once.
He was two years old by appearance, but his mind was sharper than anyone around him. And now, for the first time since his rebirth, he felt it again—that strange pull, that thrum beneath his skin like a heartbeat echoing from another world.
He wasn't alone in this body.
It began as a flicker in the corner of his eye. Then a whisper.
"Do you remember who you were?"
Raen's spine stiffened. The room hadn't changed. The shadows hadn't moved. But something unseen was watching.
"You were born of death, child. Ash bound to flesh. That makes you... ours."
He stood slowly. The stone beneath his feet buzzed faintly with warmth, though no fire burned nearby. The air thickened.
"Show yourself," he said aloud, voice unsteady but defiant.
A wisp of flame curled up from the floor. It took no shape, but the heat carried weight. It pressed into his chest like memory, like wrath.
Then it spoke again.
"You were chosen before the blade pierced your heart. Zion Thorne is not gone… he is sealed within the Flame of Judgment."
"Unlock it, and reclaim your power."
The flame vanished.
But in its place, something burned into his palm—a faint mark, shaped like a broken crown encircled by thorns.
His breath caught. He remembered that symbol—it had been carved into the blade that killed him.
Kael's blade.
The next morning, Raen's nursemaid found him sitting in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the sunrise.
"What are you thinking about, Your Grace?" she asked with a kind smile.
Raen turned to her, voice calm.
"How empires fall."