“That is true annihilation. Not death—but nothingness.”
Silence follows. Deep. Absolute.
Then Dagan speaks, his voice slow and inevitable as tectonic shift.
“We know this, brother. And we will find an answer. Now, it is your turn, Thorne,” he says. “Are you prepared to do your duty?”
I look toward the chest where the fallen Prime’s crown waits.
Toward the burden no one wants—but someone must carry.
Fire answers in my blood.
“Always,” I say.
My gaze drifts to the chest at the center of the chamber.
The crown rests inside it, quiet and waiting. Watching.
Judging.
I exhale.
“Always, I will always answer the call when Nightfall needs me,” I repeat stronger.
Each of them murmurs and nods. I can feel their belief in me swell, and it is better than nothing.
Because the truth? I don’t know if I am the one the crown will choose.
What I do know?
The Broken Plains are dying.
Ashfell—my keep, my legacy—sits in ruin.
I have no time to mend it while I am holding the line against SoulTakers who claw at my borders night after night.
The forges where dreams are born—where hopes are shaped and set loose into the multiverse—must continue to burn.
They are my responsibility.
And the SoulTakers led by the fiend Idris would see them extinguished.
“I cannot allow the forges of my people to die out,” I say flatly.
“You are not alone, brother,” Kael says, steady as the tide.
I meet his gaze. “No. But you and Alaric have each gained your boon through your viyella.”
Phoebe.
Jules.
The Fates have smiled on them both.
And I could use some of that.
Alaric opens his mouth. “Thorne—about my plan to trick the Fates. It’s not what you think?—”
