It had been a fortnight since the fortress of Khaz Gareth was reclaimed, and the enemy cast into retreat. Days of travel down winding cliffs, across shattered bridges, and past the broken bones of war. The alliance—what remained of it—moved with tired limbs but watchful eyes, banners tattered and hearts wary of the silence that hung in the air like smoke after a fire.

  Ghor Nheram welcomed them not with horns and cheers, but with quiet respect. The forges were lit, the stone streets cleared, and the master-at-arms, Thrain of House Stormguard, stood at the great gate, silver helm in hand.

  As they rode, Cassian drifted closer to Wyatt, who walked beside his direwolf, its white fur streaked with soot and ash. The warhammer slung across Wyatt’s back still hummed with a strange, imperceptible energy.

  “I still can’t believe it,” Cassian muttered. “What you did back there. I’ve fought beside you before, but... that wasn’t the same Wyatt I knew.”

  Wyatt was quiet for a long while, his eyes distant. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Because I’m not.”

  Cassian frowned. “What happened?”

  Wyatt inhaled, as if the answer still settled like coal dust in his lungs. “After we had separated ways, I was able to travel west as instructed. However, after reaching the footholds of the Lonely Mountain... I nearly died, and I was found instead. By them.”

  Cassian tilted his head. “Them?”

  “The Kin,” Wyatt said. “An ancient, isolated tribe. Red-haired like me. Turns out... I’m one of them. My mother was Kin. They live in the harshest places, untouched by time. Said they were forged by The Smith himself, and they’re still loyal to his name. They helped me... understand a part of me I never knew had existed.”

  “And the Hermit?” Cassian asked.

  Wyatt’s expression shifted, both reverent and grim. “The Hermit is no myth. He’s real. The Smith’s mortal hand on this world. I... met him, up there. He taught me how to wield what was sleeping inside me. Said it wasn’t a gift. It was a burden. A responsibility.”

  Cassian absorbed that quietly. “And now?”

  “Now?” Wyatt gave a faint laugh. “Now, every time I swing that hammer, it’s like a storm trying to break loose inside me. That fight—against the Nameless One—it drained everything. Every breath. Every ounce of will I had left.”

  They walked in silence for a time.

  “You don’t need to carry it alone,” Cassian said. “Not anymore.”

  Before Wyatt could respond, the massive gate of Ghor Nheram creaked open as Thrain stepped forward.

  “My lords,” he said, voice echoing through the deep stone halls. “You’ve returned victorious. Praise the Forge.”

  Sindras stepped down from his mount, his great pauldrons scuffed with the memory of battle. “Victory came at a cost, Master Thrain. But we’ll count our dead later.”

  Thrain nodded and bowed his head. “Then there’s something you must know. While you were away, something stirred. Lord Rykard—he’s awakened from the Dreaming Sleep.”

  The group exchanged glances. Even Uriel straightened, brows rising.

  “Are you certain?” Vargas asked, stepping forward. “After all this time?”

  “I saw it with my own eyes,” Thrain replied. “He sits in the Hall of Stalwart Memory, waiting.”

  Cassian turned to Wyatt. “Well. Looks like the story’s not over yet.”

  Wyatt looked ahead, toward the carved halls of the dwarven capital, firelight glinting against ancient stone.

  “No,” he said quietly. “It’s just beginning.”

  The Hall of Stalwart Memory was carved of obsidian-veined stone and ringed with rune-lit braziers. Quiet as a tomb, yet warm with the pulse of ancient magic. The air carried the scent of mountain herbs and slow-boiled meat. A soft crackling fire danced in a central hearth, and beside it—draped in a deep blue robe embroidered with silver runes—sat a man stirring soup.

  His hair was a striking contrast against the room’s dim hues: white as winter’s first frost, tied loosely at the nape of his neck. His frame was lean, but the long sleep had not dulled his posture. Even seated, there was poise in his spine and a quiet authority in the way he held his spoon.

  He did not look up until the group was several paces in.

  “You took your time,” he said dryly, though there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

  Uriel stepped forward first. The Royal Guard bowed his head slightly, one hand over the crest on his chest.

  “Lord Rykard Wintertomb,” he said respectfully. “It’s good to see you awake. Are you... well?”

  Rykard set the bowl down gently, exhaling. “Better now. It’s not every day one wakes to find a member of the Seven at their bedside. You honor me, Uriel.”

  His voice was calm, but not lacking in warmth. The way he spoke gave the impression of someone who had read more books than he had held swords—but had still held both. His piercing grey eyes, still adjusting to the torchlight, studied the group.

  “I also owe thanks to the good Kings of House Stormguard,” he continued, inclining his head toward Sindras and Vargas, “for keeping Winterspire safe when I could not. My people live because of your stewardship.”

  Sindras grunted approvingly. “It’s not thanks we seek, Lord Wintertomb. You are kin in purpose and in oath. We held the gates as our fathers would have.”

  Rykard nodded, emotion flickering in his eyes. “Still. Know that I will not forget.”

  Cassian stepped forward, folding his arms. “King Sindras and Uriel found difficulty in dispelling the barrier, your grace.”

  “The barrier,” Rykard said. “It was not of human design. It had caught me off guard. It was dark. Ancient. Something in the deepest parts of our history must have cast it.” He glanced toward the stone archway behind him, then frowned. “Or someone.”

  Vargas chuckled dryly. “Wouldn’t be surprised. The enemy made it all the way to our doorstep.”

  Rykard’s expression darkened. “I feared as much when my dreams began to wane. The vision was... hazy. But there was fire. Death. And something... unraveling.”

  Uriel leaned forward slightly. “You saw something?”

  “Not saw,” Rykard corrected, “but felt. My blood is tied to both the arcane and divine. Something breached the veil, Uriel. Something old. Something that should have remained forgotten.”

  Cassian and Wyatt exchanged glances. Wyatt said nothing, but the grip around the haft of his warhammer tightened ever so slightly.

  Rykard studied Wyatt for a beat longer. “You carry it well,” he said quietly. “I sense powerful magic stirring within you, lad.”

  “You’re not wrong,” Wyatt replied.

  Rykard looked at the soup again and took another sip, wincing. “Still too hot. Or maybe my tongue’s not used to this world again.”

  Then he looked at the group and straightened.

  “I’ll need a full report. Tell me everything that has happened.”

  Uriel gave a solemn nod. “Understood, my lord.”

  The fire crackled louder for a moment, as if in answer. Outside the Hall, the sounds of the returning alliance filtered faintly through the stone.

  For the first time in weeks, they were not standing on a battlefield.

  But the storm was far from over.

  ***

  The High Chamber had once served as a scriptorium, now converted into a war room. Maps of Primera stretched across a frost-dusted table carved from a single slab of Everice, each pin and rune-marked token trembling faintly in the torchlight. Ancient tomes lined the towering shelves behind them, their bindings worn with age but still humming with dormant knowledge.

  Lord Rykard stood at the table, draped now in a long coat of sable and silver. His hair—still damp from his first proper wash—fell over one shoulder as he studied the markers in silence. Uriel stood at his right, his battle staff leaned against the wall beside him. Cassian leaned in the archway, arms crossed. Wyatt remained back, quietly watching the city from one of the high windows, his reflection muted in the blue-glass pane.

  Uriel broke the silence.

  “They’re waiting on you,” he said. “The Lords and Ladies of the Great Houses. Some of them have speculated rebellion at first, asking why you did not answer the summons.”

  Rykard didn’t flinch. “I couldn’t do anything. And I will not apologize for being imprisoned in stasis magic that even I couldn’t override.”

  Uriel nodded. “I know. We'll provide them with the truth of what happened here today as we return south. Now, I believe you are owed an explanation. ”

  Rykard looked up. “Tell me everything.”

  Uriel stepped forward, his tone sobering.

  “A fragment of Limbo breached into our realm. The Circle of Limbo—what we once called legend—was real. It walked Khaz Gareth in flesh and shadow. It called itself The Nameless One. Its purpose was not conquest. It was stalling. A distraction.”

  Rykard’s brow furrowed. “Stalling for what?”

  Uriel gestured to the maps on the table. “Primera is under siege. Word is limited, but from what we know… multiple cities across the southern and central regions have fallen. Some without a single survivor. Fields have turned to salt. Trade routes are cut. Even parts of the Capital may be burning.”

  Cassian shifted in the doorway. “We haven’t heard anything from Sir Byronard. Or Gabriel. Or the rest of the Great Houses. We fear the worst.”

  Rykard’s eyes darkened. “And this… Nameless One. It mentioned that there are nine hells...or Circles?”

  Uriel nodded. “He claimed the Nine are real. Essentially confirming that hell itself is real as well. That which we once dismissed as mythology was simply misremembered truth. He also mentioned that history is written by the victors.”

  “That… changes everything,” Rykard whispered.

  Wyatt finally turned from the window. “It already has.”

  Rykard looked at him and nodded once, slowly.

  Uriel placed a hand on the table, the veins in his forearm glowing faintly with divine mana. “There’s more. The Nameless One retrieved an ancient dwarven amulet—heirloom of their kind. Then handed it to a second figure.”

  “A second?” Rykard asked.

  “A stranger,” Uriel said. “Cloaked in shadow. Power beyond reason. With a single command, he forced us to our knees. Every soul on the battlefield. Except him.”

  Uriel motioned toward Wyatt.

  Rykard studied Wyatt again, more carefully this time. The warhammer he bore still pulsed with residual heat, humming with something old and divine. And the way Wyatt stood—not proud, not shaken, but focused—it carried weight.

  “I see,” Rykard said. “You carry Divine power within you.” His eyes pulsed with magic as he looked at Wyatt, studying his every move.

  Wyatt nodded, slow and tired. “It’s real. All of it.”

  Silence fell for a moment.

  Rykard inhaled deeply, then turned his gaze to the map again. “Then we’re no longer just fighting to hold ground.”

  Uriel folded his arms. “We’re fighting to prevent annihilation.”

  Cassian stepped forward. “What do we do now?”

  Rykard turned toward them fully, his expression no longer that of a scholar—but of a Lord.

  “We prepare for war,” he said. “But not just with weapons or warriors. We dig into the forgotten archives. We unseal what our ancestors sealed away. We find out what these Nine Circles truly are—and how to break them.”

  Uriel nodded, firm. “Then we stand with you.”

  “And I with you,” said Rykard.

  ***

  The wind carried the echoes of war through the mountain passes, but within the gates of Ghor Nheram, the air was still. A heavy farewell lingered over the ancient halls as the Royal Guard assembled, banners lowered, armor bearing the scars of Khaz Gareth. The great stone bridge of the Iron Gate yawned before them, marking the first step of their long return.

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  Wyatt stood at the head of the procession, his warhammer now wrapped in heavy cloth and bound to his back. Beside him rode Cassian, quiet and watchful. Lord Rykard Wintertomb, still pale from his slumber but regaining strength, rode behind them on a dark steed, the sigil of his House—a silver key laid over a blue-and-white shield—waving solemnly from his shoulder. Uriel marched on foot, as he always preferred, staff in hand, his eyes ever toward the horizon.

  The dwarven kings, Sindras and Vargas of House Stormguard, clasped forearms with Wyatt one last time.

  "You fought well, lad," Sindras rumbled. "But your body needs rest. Even steel bends if strained too long."

  "We'll recover quickly," Vargas added, his tone gruff but kind. "And when we do, our hammers and axes will answer Primera’s call. On my beard, I swear it."

  Wyatt nodded, the weight of their promise adding a strange warmth to his chest.

  Outside the gates, Lord Vaerion waited with a contingent of elven rangers. His silver-blue cloak fluttered in the morning breeze.

  "Though our people must tend to our own wounds, aid shall be offered wherever it is needed. The Crescent Moon does not forget its allies." He bowed deeply to Wyatt and Cassian, then vanished into the distance.

  The days turned to weeks.

  As the company ventured southward, the signs of war grew impossible to ignore. Once-green farmlands were now fields of ash. Crops were reduced to withered husks, their soil blackened. Farmhouses were nothing but splinters and charcoal. Smoke clung to the wind even where no fires burned.

  At the ruins of Cravenhill, Wyatt dismounted and knelt in silence. The village they once passed through weeks ago was now a graveyard, scattered with broken wagons and burnt-out foundations. No corpses remained—only the haunting stillness of places emptied by terror or worse.

  "They burned everything…" Cassian murmured. “This wasn’t just an attack. This was erasure.”

  Further along, they passed caravans of displaced families. Men with hollow eyes and soot-streaked cheeks clutched the reins of tired horses. Children peered up from inside wagons piled with whatever belongings hadn’t been stolen or consumed.

  One woman approached, recognizing Uriel’s silver crest. “My lord,” she begged, “is the Capital still standing? Please… my brother is a merchant there.”

  Uriel gave her a steady look but said nothing for a long moment. Finally, he placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “We’ll find out soon enough. Stay close to the other survivors. The dwarves are sending caravans this way with aid.”

  They pushed on.

  The Crownlands, once fertile and proud, had become something altogether foreign. Trees stood half-scorched, rivers ran dark, and the roads were no longer safe without armed escort. Even the sky seemed dimmer than before, as if the heavens themselves recoiled from what had taken place.

  It wasn’t until they passed the final ridge overlooking the Vale of Silverpine that they saw it: the looming silhouette of the Capital City. Its walls still stood, proud and gleaming beneath the mid-afternoon sun—but the banners atop them were torn. And outside, smoke still rose from scattered skirmishes along the fields.

  Cassian leaned toward Wyatt. “Does it feel… different to you?”

  Wyatt nodded slowly. “Yes. Everything has changed. And whatever’s waiting for us inside those walls—it’s only the beginning.”

  Uriel stepped forward, his voice heavy.

  “Let us ride.”

  And with that, the horns were blown. The final leg of the journey had begun.

  The banners of Primera fluttered in the wind as the gates of the central Crownlands opened, revealing the battered yet proud regiment of the Royal Guard. Clad in pristine white armor, their return was a beacon of hope. At their head marched Uriel, battle staff in hand, flanked by Cassian, Wyatt, and Lord Rykard. The journey had been long and heavy with the weight of everything they’d seen—burnt farms, crumbled watchtowers, villages empty save for ash and silence.

  But now, before them, stood a familiar group: Sir Byronard in his black cape bearing the sigil of House Ilyn—the direwolf—his dark armor polished and regal despite the scars of battle. To his side was Gabriel, her golden hair glinting in the sun, a light in the ruin. Raphael stood nearby, silent but alert, and beside him leaned Flint, their ever-dependable mercenary ally—still a mystery to most.

  Byronard stepped forward first, placing a gloved hand on Uriel’s shoulder. “You’ve returned. Just in time.”

  Uriel inclined his head. “The North stands, for now.”

  “You have my respect, Uriel,” Byronard said. “The allied effort at Khaz Gareth bought us precious time. The Royal Guard proved their mettle.”

  Gabriel grinned, brushing back a loose strand of gold. “Did I miss out on all the fun?”

  Cassian snorted. “You wouldn’t call it that if you saw what we went through.”

  Wyatt remained silent, eyes flickering between Gabriel and Flint, though his grip on the warhammer had subtly relaxed.

  Uriel turned serious. “Any casualties here?”

  Raphael spoke, his voice low and clear. “There were losses. A few cities fell. But it could’ve been worse. The Great Houses stood strong. And thanks to Gabriel’s efforts—” he glanced toward her, “—the Circle of Lust has been subdued.”

  Cassian’s eyes widened. “You... you killed one of them?”

  Gabriel shook her head. “No. Defeated, yes. But Lilith still breathes. She’s locked beneath Wolfsbane Keep, imprisoned with unbreakable runes. Alive, but not free. She’s... dangerous, even now.”

  “A captive Circle…” Uriel muttered, brow furrowed. “That’s dangerous. But it could be useful.”

  Byronard nodded. “We’ll talk more inside. The city’s changed, as you’ll soon see. And we’ve much to plan—because what comes next may make the North look merciful.”

  Wyatt glanced south toward the distant silhouette of the Capital, still standing—barely.

  “Then let’s not waste any more time.”

  The great council chamber of Wolfsbane Keep was dimly lit by hanging lanterns, their soft flames dancing against stone-carved walls lined with scattered tomes, ancient scrolls, and sprawling maps. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, disturbed only by the shifting of chairs and the rustle of parchment. Around the long table sat Primera’s finest—the returning heroes, the leaders of men, and the last bulwark of a kingdom on the edge.

  Lord Rykard Wintertomb stood near the central map table, one hand flipping open a weathered book, the other tracing the etchings of ley lines and ancient ruins marked in faded ink.

  “From what I’ve gathered,” Rykard began, his white hair tousled from the road and his recent recovery, “the Circles aren’t merely titles or factions of powerful beings. They’re living embodiments of hellish domains—fragments of a realm forged from ancient sins and sealed by forgotten gods.”

  He glanced up, eyes somber. “The Nine Circles of Hell… are real. And they are active.”

  Uriel folded his arms. “And Limbo was just the first.”

  Rykard nodded. “Precisely. I’d been researching strange fluctuations in divine currents—dreams that weren’t mine, visions of names I’ve never known. I was close, I think… too close. My last few nights in Winterspire were violent. Dreams full of screaming winds and a formless shadow whispering my name. Then… stasis. Locked in my own tower. I couldn’t move, speak, or breathe freely. It was as though someone—or something—was trying to bury me in silence.”

  Byronard, seated at the head of the table, gave a slow nod. “Which is why we needed you at the summons. This confirms our suspicions. The attacks are coordinated. This isn’t chaos—it’s a campaign.”

  He turned toward the table, gesturing at a freshly inked map of Primera. Entire regions were circled in red, others shaded in gray, symbolizing areas reclaimed or lost. “Now that we know who we’re facing, the next step is determining what they want—and how to stop them.”

  Across the table, Wyatt leaned toward Flint, voice lowered. “What about you? What happened here while we were gone?”

  Cassian added with a grin, “Yeah, I’m surprised you’re not halfway to some tavern right now.”

  Before Flint could answer, Raphael’s calm but sharp voice cut in. “That’s no way to speak to a monarch.”

  Both Wyatt and Cassian blinked in unison.

  “…Monarch?” Wyatt echoed.

  Gabriel chuckled, clearly enjoying their confusion. “Flint’s real name is Alexander. Alexander Ilyn. He’s Sir Byronard’s nephew—and now, the current King of Primera.”

  A stunned silence followed.

  “You’re joking,” Cassian muttered, half-laughing. “That’s… no. Seriously?”

  Wyatt’s gaze shifted to Byronard, who gave the faintest nod of confirmation.

  “Knock it off, Gabby,” Flint sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I told you not to introduce me like that.”

  He turned toward the others. “Look, yeah—it’s true. Ilyn blood runs through me, and when the time came, I had to step up. But I’m not about to let a crown change who I am. So, if it’s all the same to you... just call me Flint. Please.”

  Cassian looked between Wyatt and Flint, still stunned. “You mean the entire time we were fighting side-by-side, travelling, and dodging Polifio blades... you were royalty?”

  Flint shrugged. “Technically, yes. Practically? I was still just trying not to die.”

  Gabriel leaned on the table with a teasing grin. “He’s still adjusting to all the bowing and etiquette. I think the last court function he attended, he showed up in mercenary leathers.”

  “Because that’s what I am,” Flint muttered. “Or was.”

  Uriel tapped the map with his staff, drawing everyone’s attention back. “Titles aside—we need to prepare. If Limbo was only the first to breach our borders, the others will follow. And they may not wait long.”

  Rykard closed the book before him with a soft thud. “Then we’ll stand ready. Primera must endure, no matter how deep the abyss runs.”

  Within the high stone corridors of Wolfsbane Keep, the candlelit air was heavy with silence—an uneasy calm after war’s storm. The council chamber had emptied of its urgency, yet tension lingered as Lord Rykard approached Sir Byronard, who remained by the large map table, arms crossed over his dark armor. The direwolf sigil on his black cape seemed almost alive in the firelight, its fangs catching the glow.

  Rykard’s expression was unreadable, but his voice carried the weight of intent.

  “I need an audience with Lilith.”

  Byronard’s brow furrowed. “The Circle of Lust?”

  Rykard nodded.

  The request hung in the air. Gabriel, lounging against the nearby wall, looked up with a flicker of curiosity. Raphael, silent but always watchful, tilted his head slightly toward the conversation.

  Byronard narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  Rykard’s answer was quiet, but firm. “Just trust me.”

  For a moment, the knight-regent studied the young lord’s expression, looking for doubt, hesitation—anything. But there was only calm determination. Finally, Byronard nodded once.

  “Fine. Gabriel, Raphael—you’ll accompany him. She’s still locked beneath the Keep, behind the runes we had etched by the Stone Priests of Ardran. If she so much as breathes wrong, end her.”

  Gabriel gave a mock salute, golden hair catching the lantern glow. “Understood.”

  Without another word, Rykard dipped his head in gratitude. “Thank you.” And with that, he turned, cloak trailing behind him as he followed the two warriors out of the chamber, descending into the depths.

  Byronard remained, his gaze following them until the door shut. Then he turned to face the others—Wyatt, Cassian, Flint, and Uriel—still standing nearby.

  “Wyatt,” he said, voice low. “A moment.”

  Cassian, sensing the change in tone, raised an eyebrow. “Do you want us to—?”

  “It’s alright,” Byronard cut in. “You can stay. There’s something I need to take off my chest.”

  They all moved to the seats around the long table. Wyatt lowered himself slowly, arms crossed as he watched Byronard closely. The others followed suit, Uriel seated beside Flint, who looked particularly curious.

  “I’ve sensed something different in you,” Byronard began, looking at Wyatt. “Ever since you returned from the North. It’s not just your strength. Your movements are precise—measured in ways few warriors can achieve. But there’s something deeper. Something... old.”

  Uriel leaned forward, hands folded over his battle staff. “I felt it as well. There’s a... resonance. Not just from his weapon, but from him. But I can’t place it.”

  Byronard’s expression darkened with a trace of concern. “That’s because it’s not something we’re meant to understand casually. It’s a burden passed down by the divine. Wyatt—”

  He turned fully to the young warrior. “Have you finally accepted the burden of being a Vessel?”

  The word echoed in the quiet chamber like a blade striking stone.

  Wyatt stiffened. “What did you just say?”

  Cassian and Flint exchanged confused glances.

  “A Vessel?” Cassian asked. “What does that mean?”

  Byronard ignored the question for now, his eyes fixed on Wyatt. The young man didn’t answer. Not immediately. He stared at the table, his fingers curling slightly against the grain.

  “You know what that means?” he asked softly. “How?”

  Byronard gestured toward the table. “Sit. All of you. You deserve to hear the truth.”

  As they settled in, the air in the room grew heavier, the shadows deeper. The flickering light of the braziers seemed to dim, as if even the fire was waiting to hear what would come next.

  “Long before Primera’s founding,” Byronard began, “before the Great Houses, before even the start of civilization as we know it, existed forces that shaped this world. The old gods created all that there was, and were then succeeded by the deities we know as the Divines, who have acted as humanity, and even other races' patrons for worship. They weren’t just myths. They were real—and they still are. However, an old god rebelled against the natural order and attempted to overthrow not only the realm of gods but also ours. The Divines knew they couldn’t intervene directly. So, they chose Vessels. Mortals strong enough to bear a fragment of their essence—strong enough to fight back.”

  He looked at Wyatt again.

  “You are one of them.”

  Wyatt’s jaw clenched. The memory of the Hermit’s voice—of the fire in his blood and the weight in his heart—returned in full. He nodded slowly.

  “…I didn’t want it,” he said, voice rough. “But I couldn’t turn it away.”

  Uriel sat back in stunned silence. Flint scratched the side of his face. “Gods. And I thought being royalty was heavy.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” Cassian asked quietly.

  Wyatt shook his head. “Because I didn’t understand it. Still don’t. The Hermit showed me... what I might become. But it’s overwhelming. Every time I lift that hammer, I feel like I’m swinging a mountain. Every decision I make... echoes.”

  Byronard placed a gauntleted hand on the table. “That’s the weight of purpose, Wyatt. And that’s why we need to be ready. Because if the Smith chose you, then you’re the only one who can fight what’s coming next.”

  Silence returned, thicker now, laden with the knowledge of what the world might demand from them.

  Cassian finally broke it, leaning forward, his voice dry but sincere.

  “Well. That’s one hell of a chest you emptied.”

  They all managed faint smiles, though the gravity of the moment never fully left.

  “Let’s hope,” Uriel said, gaze steady on Wyatt, “that what’s coming doesn’t demand more than even a Vessel can give.”

  Silence lingered in the room, thick and reverent, as the knowledge of Wyatt’s divine burden settled into the air. The others sat in quiet thought—Cassian and Flint exchanging glances, Uriel’s brows furrowed in thought.

  But it was Wyatt who finally broke the silence again.

  “…How do you know all this?” he asked, voice low, uncertain. “The Vessels, the old gods and the Divines… the way it works. How could you know it so well?”

  Byronard exhaled slowly.

  And then, he said it.

  “Because I’m one too.”

  The words struck like a hammer to the chest. Everyone in the room froze. Even the ever-composed Uriel blinked and straightened in his seat.

  Cassian was the first to react. “Wait. What?”

  Byronard nodded, slowly pulling off one of his gauntlets and placing it on the table, almost ceremonially. “I am the Vessel of the Mother. The protector of life. Chosen long ago, in my youth.”

  Wyatt leaned forward, stunned. “You… You represent the Mother?”

  “Yes,” Byronard said quietly. “And no—my path was not the same as yours. Each Divine chooses differently. You were tested in fire. Mine was… quieter. But no less scarring.”

  Uriel looked away for a moment, then asked the question they were all thinking. “How long?”

  “Since I was fifteen,” Byronard replied. “When our people's faith wavered. I was given a gift. Or a curse, depending on the day.”

  He leaned his arms on the table now, and his voice softened—not as a knight, not as a regent—but as a man burdened by years of quiet suffering.

  “Being a Vessel is a blessing, yes. We’re given the strength to protect those we care for. The power to tip the scales in battle. But the cost is solitude. You walk a path only the Divine understands. You see the world differently. And no one—not even those closest to you—can truly comprehend the weight of that power. Except another Vessel.”

  Wyatt lowered his gaze. “So… how do you live with it?”

  Byronard looked at him. There was no sternness in his eyes now. Only truth.

  “I smile,” he said softly. “And I move forward. I put on the armor. I carry the burden. Because someone has to. And because that’s what the Divines asked of me.”

  Cassian leaned back in his chair, lips parted in disbelief. Flint scratched his temple, whistling low. “Gods, uncle… you really don’t do anything halfway.”

  Uriel was still—processing, calculating. “Have we ever seen it? Your power?”

  “No,” Byronard said with a shake of his head. “There was never a moment where it was truly needed. Not until…”

  He paused, the shadow crossing his face unmistakable. Even Gabriel’s golden hair seemed to dim slightly in memory of what came next.

  “…Except once,” Byronard continued. “During the Civil War. When Dante murdered Alaric—my brother’s son. My nephew. He was supposed to bring the next golden age of our kingdom.”

  The silence returned, but this time it was heavier. Mourning.

  “I should’ve intervened,” Byronard said, his voice a quiet rasp. “But I hesitated. Something held me back. Maybe it was the Divine’s will. Maybe… it was cowardice.”

  He looked at Wyatt now, his gaze not of a mentor, but of someone asking forgiveness.

  “That hesitation still haunts me. Because I’m the protector of life, Wyatt. And I failed the life I cared for most. Watching Alaric fall, not being able to hear his last words… that was the heaviest moment of my life. The Divines may have chosen me, but I did not choose to carry that failure.”

  Wyatt’s voice was hoarse. “You did what you thought was right.”

  “No,” Byronard said. “I did what I thought would avoid another war. And in doing so, I let evil grow. Dante was part of the Nine Circles. I know that now. But then, I believed he was just angry. Misguided.”

  He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, as though trying to look past the stone into the heavens themselves.

  “Maybe the Divines kept me from acting. Maybe it was meant to play out like this. Or maybe… I failed. Either way, it happened. And that’s a weight I’ll carry for the rest of my life.”

  Cassian stood slowly, walking over to the table. “And yet here you are. Still carrying it. Still fighting.”

  Flint crossed his arms and smiled faintly. “You’re not as scary when you’re being all emotional, uncle.”

  Byronard chuckled. Just barely. “Don’t get used to it.”

  Uriel finally leaned in. “You’ve walked this path longer than any of us. So tell us this—what do we do now?”

  Byronard looked at them—his brothers in arms, his fellow soldiers, the boy carrying a burden he knew all too well.

  “We prepare,” he said. “We uncover more about the Nine Circles. We rally the Kingdom. Because if two Vessels are already in play… the rest will soon follow. And when that time comes, we’ll need to be ready.”

  And this time, there was no shadow in his eyes.

  Only resolve.