A blade pierces Aurius’s side.
The King gasps, stumbling forward, gripping the altar for support. “Brother...” he rasps.
Then, louder—broken and bitter, “Maldrak...”
I freeze.
Maldrak.
Maldrak is Kael’s uncle.
The usurper. The man who exiled Kael and stole his throne.
The moment Aurius collapses, Maldrak steps into his place. His hands still slick with royal blood, he raises them over the altar.
“I offer blood to bind,” he says, calm and cruel. “Not for mercy. Not for balance. But for dominion.”
Chains of smoke whip from the altar, wrapping around Morrathys like tendrils of iron.
He struggles—shrieks—and the walls of the chamber splinter with the force of his resistance. But he’s already caught in the snare of the ritual. Bound by the ancient law that governs even gods.
Maldrak places his hand to the altar, and the spell seals with a flash of green flame.
The torches relight. And Morrathys goes still.
Not dead.
Enslaved.
I watch in horror as Maldrak carves a symbol into the altar with the point of his blade—a twisted, jagged ‘M’.
The Mark of Morrathys. Of death.
Then he presses the blade to his forearm and slices it open. With his blood, he brands the first soldier standing behind him—marking him with that same symbol.
The man collapses, writhing.
Then... rises.
His eyes are empty. Obedient.Leashed.
Behind Maldrak, dozens more soldiers await.
One by one, he brands them.
Each time, Morrathys’s bound essence surges through the mark, latching onto the soldier, turning them into something else—not dead, not living, not free.
An army of revenants.
Not loyal by oath.
Loyal by brand.
My stomach turns. My vision spins. I can’t breathe.
The last thing I see before the vision begins to crack is Aurius’s crown, stained with blood, resting on the altar like a warning.
And Maldrak’s eyes.
