The air reeked of death.
Ash, blood, and distant screams hung heavy over the ruined camp of the Ashen Crows.
I knelt in the cold dirt, my hands trembling, slick with blood that wasn't mine.
Lirien's amulet lay at my feet. Its runes were darkened, as if the effort to hold me back had drained its light.
Yet I felt it—a faint pulse, like a heartbeat, urging me to pick it up.
I didn't.
I couldn't.
Because the Threshold's voice thundered inside my head, mocking, promising:
—"A king doesn't ask permission, Echo. A king takes everything."
Nyra stood before me, her knife trembling in her grasp.
Her eyes—sharp as the blade—never left mine.
—"Tell me the truth, Arion," she repeated, voice cracking, yet burning with a fury I knew well.
The fury of the betrayed.
Of someone who had learned not to trust.
We were broken mirrors—her and I.
—"There's no truth you want to hear," I said, cold, though my chest burned.
Black veins writhed beneath my skin, climbing my neck—a relentless reminder of the price I'd paid.
The dead mercenary.
His chest torn apart, as if a beast had ripped him from within.
That had been the Threshold's price.
Not one I chose—
But one I allowed.
Just like I allowed Lirien to die.
Just like I allowed my old life to end with a dagger in my back.
Nyra stepped closer, her blade inches from my throat.
—"Don't play with me," she hissed.
"That power... the Aether. You killed a hunter like it was nothing. But it's killing you, isn't it? I saw it in your eyes. Blood. Pain. What are you, Arion? A monster? A god?"
A god.
The word escaped me with a dry laugh, scraping my throat.
—"I'm no god," I said, rising slowly, ignoring the knives of pain stabbing through my body.
"I'm a mistake. And if you don't move, you'll become part of it."
She didn't move.
But her eyes flickered—and for a moment, I saw something beyond fury:
fear.
Not of me—
but of what I represented. Of what the Aether could do.
Before she could respond, a voice cracked through the air like a whip:
—"Enough!"
Dren emerged from the shadows, his obsidian relic glowing in the dying firelight.
The few remaining mercenaries—barely a dozen—gathered behind him, weapons drawn but faces pale.
They had seen what I did.
They had seen Tharion turned to ash.
And now they looked at me the same way the villagers once had:
with fear. And hatred.
—"Boy," Dren said, voice low and dangerous.
"You brought death to my camp. A hunter from the Water Realm. Do you know what that means?"
He stepped forward, fingers brushing the relic at his neck.
—"The kingdoms won't rest until they find you. And we won't die for you."
Nyra tensed, blade still aimed at me, but her eyes flicked to Dren.
—"Not our problem," she said coolly.
"Hand him over. End this."
My heart stopped.
Nyra?
The same Nyra who swore she wouldn't betray me?
But then I saw it—the glint in her eyes, the tremor in her hand.
It wasn't betrayal.
It was an act.
She was buying time.
Or at least, I hoped she was.
But I couldn't trust her.
I couldn't trust anyone.
—"You won't give me up," I said, voice steady despite the pain.
"Because you know what I can do."
I raised my hand.
The Aether responded—a flash of violet sparked at my fingertips.
The mercenaries recoiled, some muttering prayers.
Dren didn't flinch, but his eyes narrowed.
—"Brave," he said, almost admiringly.
"But foolish. The Aether is a curse, boy. It will consume you long before you can use it against us."
He touched his relic.
And I swear—I saw a flicker of violet inside it. Like an echo of my own.
—"Join me, Arion. Serve the Crows, and I'll protect you.
Defy me, and it won't be me who kills you. It'll be the Threshold."
The name struck like a blow.
How did he know about the Threshold?
My mind raced—
his relic, his words about the Aether,
the way he looked at me—as if he knew more than he let on.
Dren wasn't just a mercenary.
He was something else.
Before I could answer, the ground trembled.
A roar filled the air.
Shadows surged from the forest—fast, inhuman.
Not men.
Beasts. Creatures with red eyes and claws like obsidian.
—"Aether beasts!" one mercenary screamed, voice cracking.
"The hunter brought them here!"
Chaos erupted.
Blades clashed.
Screams tore through the night.
The mercenaries fought, slashing with daggers and swords—
But the beasts were relentless.
One tore a man apart in seconds, blood soaking the earth.
Nyra hurled herself into the fray, her Air magic slicing like blades—
But even she was overwhelmed.
—"Arion!" she yelled, dodging a claw.
"Do something!"
The Aether howled inside me. But my body shook.
Using it again could kill me.
Black veins already covered my chest.
Blood still dripped from my eyes.
But I had no choice.
I closed my eyes, searching for the amulet on the ground.
I grabbed it.
Its light flickered—faint, but still there.
As if Lirien was still with me.
—"You are enough," she once said.
But I wasn't.
Not without a cost.
—"Use me," the Threshold whispered.
Now a roar.
"Destroy them, and the path to the throne will open. But choose your sacrifice."
I didn't want to choose.
But the beasts were killing everyone—
The Crows. Nyra.
All of them.
And Dren, relic glowing, stared at me.
Waiting.
Did he know what was coming?
Was this a test?
I let the Aether flow.
The world shattered.
Time cracked.
A violet explosion tore through the camp.
The beasts turned to ash, red eyes fading.
But the pain was unbearable.
I collapsed.
Vision darkening.
Blood pouring from my mouth.
Black veins covering my face.
And I felt my soul tear—
A piece ripped away by the Threshold.
When I opened my eyes, the camp was a graveyard.
Bodies scattered.
But one stood out—the man who gave me water.
The same from the vision.
His chest torn, but this time something glowed inside:
A shard of obsidian, pulsing like Dren's relic.
—"The price," the Threshold whispered.
"And it is not yet paid."
Dren stood unharmed, relic glowing brighter than ever.
—"Impressive," he said coldly.
"But not enough. The Aether claims you, boy. And so do I."
He stepped forward, sword drawn.
—"Swear loyalty to me—or die here."
Nyra, panting, stepped between us, knife raised.
—"Touch him, and I'll kill you," she growled—
But her gaze flicked to me, full of doubt.
—"Arion, tell me what's happening. Now."
I looked down at the amulet in my hand.
Its light—almost gone.
The vision of the throne returned.
Blood. Corpses.
Nyra—dead.
Lirien—dead.
And me, seated with a broken crown.
The Threshold laughed.
—"Choose, Echo. The throne—or nothing."
—"I serve no one," I whispered.
But as I looked at Dren, his relic, and Nyra—her blade shaking—
I knew:
The path to the throne demanded more than blood.
It demanded betrayal.
And this time—
I would be the one to commit it.