The seal pulsed with finality, casting a cold shimmer across the chamber walls. The Hollow King slept once more—chained, bound, silenced.
But not gone.
Kael stood in the middle of the ancient prison, his shoulders tight with divine tension. The Twelve Star Pillars flickered like dying flames, weakened by the energy it took to hold the entity down. Beside him, Lyra wiped blood from her brow, while Valen leaned on his spear, clearly exhausted.
"That was barely a delay," Lyra muttered. "Not a victory."
Kael nodded grimly. "He won't stay asleep long. The seal's corrupted... fractured."
Valen tilted his head. "Then we strengthen it. Bring in the rest of the Legion. Dig up more relics. There must be another way."
Kael's gaze shifted toward the chamber's far wall.
And stopped.
A shadow—no, a figure stood there. Cloaked in rags that shimmered like starlight wrapped in dust. He hadn't been there before. Not even Kael had sensed him arrive.
"Who—?"
"I am called Ezareth," the figure rasped, stepping into view. His eyes were blind, cloudy like stormglass, but they saw everything. "The last prophet of the Pre-Dawn Era. The last voice of those who warned you gods… and were ignored."
Kael stiffened. "You're from the age before the Celestials?"
Ezareth nodded slowly. "Before the Abyss. Before even Tyrnex was sealed. I was the one who wrote the binding runes... under the will of the First Flame."
The name rang through Kael's mind like thunder.
The First Flame. The source of all creation the spark even the gods whispered about but had never seen.
"You knew it?" Kael asked