The Sacred Grove was a place where the line between earth and heaven grew thin. Under the starbloom trees, the air shimmered with a soft, silver light. At the center stood the ancient stone altar.
Eldric's crown and armor were laid upon it. The court gathered in a wide, solemn circle. The emissaries of the Seven Kingdoms stood together, though their unity felt fragile. The Lysvaen delegates, led by the grace of their realm, stood tall—their loyalty to the Vaeltheron bloodline as clear as the moonlight. But in the shadows, the hooded figures of the Xeraphyn watched in a cold, calculating silence.
The High Seer stepped into the center. "The Drazhin leave no flesh to decay," she intoned. "For our spirits are forged in the stars."
She raised her hands, and the starbloom trees responded. Their blossoms began to pulse with a radiant sheen. The air itself began to hum. The relics on the altar seemed to vibrate, as if the metal was remembering the man who had worn it.
Aetheron's heart ached. He still expected to hear his father's raspy laugh. He glanced at Kaelor, who stood just a step behind him—an unshakeable anchor. The bond between them was the only thing keeping Aetheron grounded as the crown's weight settled onto his soul.
The High Seer's chant grew louder, invoking ancestors dead for ten thousand years. A silver light began to swirl around the altar, forming a celestial tide.
"To the stars, we return our King!" she cried.
The light flared into a brilliant pulse. Aetheron felt a cold, familiar presence brush against his mind—a final, silent blessing from a father to a son. Then, the light settled. The relics remained, but they looked sacred now, blessed by the ritual.
Aetheron stepped forward, lifting his sword, Starfire. The blue fire in the steel clashed with the silver light of the grove.
"Draeven Zareth believes he has won," Aetheron's voice cut through the stillness like a blade. "But he has only succeeded in creating the man who will end him."
As the court dispersed, the Xeraphyn emissaries whispered urgently among themselves. Unlike the Lysvaen who stood firm by the King, the Xeraphyn weren't looking at Aetheron; they were looking at the darkening horizon with eyes full of betrayal. They weren't preparing for war—they were preparing to save themselves.
The war was no longer coming. It was already here.