The Black Throne room was quiet—eerily so. Normally, it roared with infernal fire, whispered with shadows, or echoed with the cries of demons kneeling before the King. But now, silence reigned.
Shadow stood before the ancient obsidian mirror, watching the reflection of his son's awakening echo across the fabric of their realm. His hands were clasped behind his back, claws still stained with the blood of the last would-be usurper, yet his expression was unreadable.
Valaria entered quietly. She did not wear her armor, nor carry her golden staff. She was just… herself. A mother. A warrior who had chosen darkness for love, not for war.
"You saw it?" she asked.
He nodded. "Both wings. Both flames. He's… not like us."
"He is us," she corrected gently. "And more."
There was a pause. Then Shadow finally spoke what he had been hiding for days.
"They've begun to gather," he said. "Not the Lightborne. Not demons. Something older."
Valaria stiffened. "The Firstborn?"
"No." He turned to her, eyes like black stars. "Worse. The forgotten. The ones cast out before the war even began. The ones who watched the Light and Shadow clash from behind time itself. They're not choosing sides. They're choosing him."
Valaria stepped closer, her voice tight. "Lidow doesn't need more enemies."
"They don't want to fight him," Shadow said darkly. "They want to claim him."
Far beyond the borders of the known realms, in a crater where no light had touched for a thousand years, a shape emerged. A figure—cloaked in robes of starlight and void—knelt before a gathering of thirteen thrones.
One throne was still cracked.
One was still burning.
And one… began to glow.
"The boy has awakened," the figure said in a voice that sounded like a thousand falling stars. "The prophecy twists. The child of fracture breathes."
An ancient voice answered from the dark:
"Then it is time. The Watchers shall return."
"And the First Memory shall rise."
Meanwhile, in the mortal world, Lidow stood beneath a blackened sky, wings slowly fading into his back, heart still pounding from the awakening.
Nyla knelt behind him, her head bowed. Not in fear—but in awe.
"You heard them," she said. "Didn't you?"
He nodded. "They want me to choose."
"And?"
He clenched his fists. "I'm tired of choosing between Light or Shadow. Between mother and father. Between peace and war."
"Then what will you do?"
Lidow looked up at the stars — and beyond them.
"I'll forge something new."
deep wind howled across the plains of Kalithar. The stars above twisted subtly, as though they made space for something vast and old descending from beyond the firmament. Lidow stood alone on the cliffs, his eyes glowing faintly. His wings had not returned, but the power inside him pulsed—steady, ancient, and unshaped.
And then it arrived.
A single figure. Cloaked in fabric that looked like shattered time, its form shimmered and blurred, as though reality struggled to hold it. It did nicht walk—it arrived, in silence, and with the weight of a forgotten world.
"I am Vereth," it said, its voice emotionless and vast. "First of the Watchers. Keeper of the Memory Vaults. And you… are the Riftborn."
Lidow said nothing. He didn't understand that name—but he could feel its truth in his bones.
"I have come to weigh your soul," Vereth continued, extending a hand. "To see if you are worthy of what you carry."
Lidow narrowed his eyes. "And if I'm not?"
The Watcher did not blink. "Then the realms will consume you. One by one. Starting with your bloodline."
Power sparked around Lidow's hands. "Try me."
With a flick, Vereth opened a rift of pure memory. A vortex of time, shadow, and broken truths surrounded them. In an instant, Lidow was ripped from the world and thrown into visions—of his father's rise, of his mother's fall, of the dead Nine and the endless wars. He screamed as he relived every death, every betrayal, every moment of unbearable choice he had never made but had inherited.
He saw the Lightborne cities burn. He saw the Demonic Thrones shatter. He saw himself, much older, alone—standing over a world buried in ash.
"No!" he shouted. "That's not who I'll become!"
The visions twisted. The older version of himself turned, smirked—and vanished into shadow.
The vortex snapped shut. Lidow collapsed, breathing hard. Vereth stood unmoved.
"You carry the potential to destroy everything," the Watcher said. "And you deny it."
"Because I'm not him," Lidow hissed. "I'm not my father. I'm not my fate."
Vereth paused.
Then it knelt.
Not in submission—but in recognition.
"You may yet be worthy," it whispered.
From the shadows behind Vereth, two more Watchers stepped forward.
Lidow rose slowly, heart still pounding.
It had begun.
Not a war.
A test.
And the whole world would be watching.
The air inside the Temple of Echoes was thick with silence. Lidow stood barefoot before a mirror of obsidian and gold, one hand trembling by his side, the other clenched. The second trial had begun—the trial of the Present, where choices shaped the man more than his past or future.
He looked into the mirror.
And the mirror looked back.
Not just at him—but into him.
Suddenly, the reflection changed. It wasn't his ten-year-old self anymore—it was a future version of him, older, taller, eyes burning with a blend of light and shadow. Crowned. Wounded. Alone.
"You are not ready," the reflection whispered.
"I don't want to be you," Lidow replied.
"Then don't choose. Let others shape you."
The room shifted, warping into a battlefield. Burnt wings. Screaming shadows. Saint Xarthor stood in the distance, wielding a blade that erased everything it touched—light, dark, even memory.
Lidow felt fear crawl up his spine. The ground trembled under him.
But then—a voice. Low, rough, calm.
"Fear is not your enemy, son. It's your leash. Hold it, or it will drag you."
Shadow stood at the edge of the vision, arms crossed, eyes glowing faintly. He had broken through the illusion—not by force, but by presence alone.
The vision shattered.
Lidow gasped, falling to his knees in the temple, sweat coating his skin. Behind him, one of the Watchers—Vereth—watched in silence.
"You passed," Vereth said, "but barely. The future bleeds into you. You must choose your flame… or it will consume the world."
Meanwhile, in the Throne Hall of Obsidian, Shadow sat in silence. The pillars burned with low, red fire. Valaria stood at the window, watching the ashes fall from a sky that hadn't seen stars in years.
"He's not ready," she said finally.
"He was never meant to be," Shadow answered. "No one is. Not for this."
"Then why do you push him?" she asked, turning to him. "Why do you let them test him?"
"Because I want him to have a world to live in. If Xarthor wins, there will be no world. No fire. No light. No death. Just… purity."
Valaria's face tightened. "There is something worse than pain," she murmured. "Perfection."
Just then, Sira entered. "The scouts returned. Saint Xarthor has taken the city of Ilarin on Earth. He's not purging anymore—he's converting. Forcing people into silence. Emotionless. Controlled."
Shadow stood slowly, cape trailing across the black marble.
"Then it's begun," he said.
Later that night, Lidow sat on the roof of the palace, legs crossed, eyes toward the ash sky.
Lan joined him, quietly sitting beside him.
"You ever think about quitting?" Lidow asked.
"Every day," Lan replied. "But then I think: someone else would screw it up worse."
They sat in silence until Lidow spoke again.
"My dad scares me."
"Good," Lan said. "He scares all of us. That means he's doing his job."
In a distant hall of light, Saint Xarthor stood barefoot on white stone. Thousands knelt before him, cloaked in blind devotion. He raised one hand, and a beam of cleansing light shot into the sky—reaching beyond the heavens, into the forgotten places.
"The Hallowing begins," he declared.
Shadow returned to the War Room. Valaria waited.
"We must prepare," he said. "Ten fronts. Ten battles. One war."
Valaria looked into his eyes.
"And when it's over?"
"If it ends," Shadow said, "he'll need to choose. Light, or shadow. Or something new."