Kael didn't leave the forest right away. The whispers had given him something—power, yes—but also a name: Thorne. His brother. The one who had vanished from memory and returned only through the voices of the dead. The one who had sealed their fates.
Kael followed the pull in his bones, an instinct as much as memory. The circlet on his brow seemed to hum faintly when he walked east. Not far from the tomb, signs of disturbance—drag marks, shattered branches—led him toward something not yet buried.
Rain clung to the forest like rot. It soaked the leaves, the roots, even the air itself, so every breath Kael took tasted like wet stone and mildew. The trees bent under the weight of the storm, groaning like old bones. Lightning flashed in the distance, revealing glimpses of forgotten headstones, overgrown paths, and moss-choked statues.
The dead no longer whispered without invitation. Kael had to reach out now, had to want it. But their presence lingered in him like a scent. Faint, but always there. Waiting.
It had started subtly—his shadow lingering where it shouldn't, his breath steaming even in the warmth. But now he could feel it, coiling beneath his skin like a second heartbeat.
He'd tried using it once, when a twisted root blocked his way. He whispered—not in his own voice, but in a tongue that rose unbidden from memory—and the root had withered to ash.
The dead had gifted him something.
A skill. A connection.
Whispersight — the ability to see the last thoughts and moments of the dead by touching their remains.
Mourning Breath — words of the long-passed, spoken through Kael, able to bend living will and twist nature.
He didn't understand all of it yet. But he knew it came at a price.
Ahead, lanterns flickered through the trees.
Kael crouched behind a twisted root, eyes narrowing.
A clearing. Four tents. Six, maybe more, men. Crates stacked high. Mercenaries—not soldiers—excavating the graves of kings.
They weren't just robbing graves. They were cataloguing. Preserving.
Working under orders.
He slipped around the camp, avoiding firelight. Close now, close enough to see the seal etched into one of the crates.
Royal Archive.
He'd seen it before—in visions, in screams.
Whatever they were digging, it wasn't forgotten. It had been hidden.
Inside the command tent, Kael found the proof.
A letter, wax-sealed and signed:
"To Lord Thorne Vaerin,"
Per your directive, the secondary site shows promising results. Artifacts recovered suggest ties to the Pre-War royal bloodlines. Documented evidence is being relocated to the Red Vault under escort.
Captain Morin
Kael left with the letter and a bone token.
The moment he touched the token, a woman's scream erupted in his mind:
"They buried the child alive! Gods, the priest said it was tradition—!"
The past clawed its way forward.
And Kael knew where he had to go.
The Red Vault.