The shadows swallowed him.
Aurelion stepped into the ruins, and the world changed. The sunlight faded, replaced by a dim, gray gloom that seemed to press against his skin. The air was cold, still, heavy with the weight of centuries.
The walls were covered in symbols—the spiral, carved deep into the stone, their edges worn smooth by time. They seemed to pulse faintly, as if they were still alive, still waiting.
He walked forward, his footsteps echoing in the silence.
The shards inside him pulsed, warm and steady.
This is the place, he thought. The Demon King's trail led here.
Whatever he's searching for—it's in these ruins.
The ruins were vast.
Aurelion moved through corridors that had once been halls, past chambers that had once been rooms. The architecture was ancient, older than anything he had seen—older than the underwater city, older than the First Kingdom.
The symbols were everywhere. Not just the spiral—others, older, more worn. They told a story he couldn't read, a history he couldn't understand.
He paused at a wall, tracing the carvings with his fingers. The stone was cold, rough, ancient.
What are you? he thought. What happened here?
The shards inside him pulsed, as if answering.
He moved on.
He found the first sign of recent activity an hour later.
Tracks. Not demon—human. Fresh. They led deeper into the ruins, toward the heart of the structure.
His heart pounded. Someone's been here. Recently.
He followed them.
The tracks led to a chamber—large, circular, its walls covered in the same spiraling symbols. At its center, a pedestal. And on the pedestal, a single object.
A shard.
But not like the others. This one was different—larger, darker, its surface covered in symbols that shifted and pulsed.
He approached it slowly, his hand reaching out.
The shards inside him pulsed, urgent, hungry.
He touched it.
The vision came without warning.
He was standing in a throne room—not the Hall of Kings, not the underwater city. A different place. A place he had never seen.
Before him, a figure sat on a throne of obsidian and bone.
The First King.
But he was not a prisoner. He was not bound.
He was seated.
"You have come," the First King said.
"I have come."
"You seek the truth."
"I seek understanding."
The First King leaned forward. His face was blurry, indistinct, but his voice was clear.
"Then listen."
The vision shattered.
Aurelion pulled his hand back, gasping, his heart pounding. The shard was cold now, inert.
What was that? he thought. What did I see?
He didn't have answers.
He looked at the shard. It was still there, still waiting.
He reached for it again.
The second vision was different.
He was standing in the same throne room. The First King was still there, still seated.
But there was someone else.
A figure in the shadows. Tall. Armored. A crown of jagged horns on his brow. His presence radiated ancient power—the kind that had ruled before the current Demon King, before the First Kingdom, before everything.
Zarveth.
The King of the Eclipse.
"You cannot hold forever," Zarveth said.
"I know," the First King replied.
"Then why—"
"Because I have to."
"Why?"
The First King turned. His face was blurry, indistinct, but his voice was clear.
"Because someone must."
The vision ended.
Aurelion stood in the chamber, his hand still on the shard, his heart pounding. The shards inside him pulsed, warm and urgent.
Zarveth, he thought. The ancient demon king. He was there. He knew the First King.
He knew about the gate.
He knew about me.
He didn't have answers.
He looked at the shard. At the symbols on its surface. At the weight of centuries pressing down on him.
Whoever is collecting these, he thought, they've been following the same path as Zarveth. As the First King. As me.
He tucked the shard into his pack and moved on.
The ruins stretched deeper.
Aurelion followed the tracks, moving through corridors and chambers, past symbols and carvings that told a story he couldn't read. The air grew colder, the darkness thicker.
He found another chamber. Another pedestal. Another shard.
He took it.
And another.
And another.
By the time he reached the end of the ruins, he had collected five shards.
They pulsed in his pack, warm and steady, resonating with the ones inside him. They were calling to each other, waiting to be whole.
But there was no central chamber. No door. No void.
Just a tunnel.
Narrow. Rough. Carved by something patient and old.
He followed it.
The tunnel sloped upward.
Aurelion climbed, his legs aching, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The shards inside him pulsed, warm and steady, feeding him strength.
He climbed for what felt like hours.
And then—
Light.
He emerged from the tunnel onto a mountain peak.
The wind hit him first—cold, sharp, carrying the scent of snow and stone. The sky was gray, the clouds low. Below him, the land stretched out like a map.
He saw the convoy.
Three trucks, moving slowly along the road below. They were hours away from the outpost, still in contested territory.
And they were about to be overrun.
Demons poured from the treeline—hundreds of them. Ground troops, moving fast, coordinated. And above them, shapes in the sky.
Flying demons.
He recognized them. He had seen them in his past life—creatures with leathery wings and razor-sharp talons. They were fast, vicious, nearly impossible to hit with ground-based weapons.
The convoy was doomed.
Aurelion watched, frozen.
He was too far away to help. Even if he ran, he wouldn't make it in time.
The soldiers below would die. Sergeant Holt would die.
I can't do anything, he thought. I'm useless.
The shards inside him pulsed, warm and urgent.
No, he thought. I can't just watch.
He started down the mountain.
A voice stopped him.
"Didn't expect to see you here... boy."