Night cloaked the desert in velvet shadows as Haraza and his companions made camp a few leagues from the Gilded Jackal's lair. The stars above were unusually vibrant—almost too vivid—as though the heavens were trying to bear witness to something just beyond the mortal coil. The moon was fractured, casting broken light in sharp angles across the dunes.
They sat in a loose circle, the fire between them flickering with glyphlight—white-blue and steady. The air buzzed faintly with latent energy from the Verdant Crown, now resting on a cloth-draped pedestal beside Haraza. Though no one said it aloud, they all felt it: the artifact throbbed with potential. It was more than an heirloom. It was a key.
And keys were never made without doors.
("I've seen many things bound in that kind of enchantment,") Harael said, gazing into the fire. ("But this... this is old magic. Older than the Rift. Older than language.")
Brannock looked uncomfortable. ("And we're just going to slap it on Haraza's head and hope he doesn't explode?")
Ryve snorted. ("You're one to talk. You practically tried to headbutt that glyph puzzle back in the Jackal's maze.")
("Hey, it worked, didn't it?")
Caela, who had been whispering softly to something unseen, leaned forward. Her voice was low and even. "The crown listens. It doesn't command. It only reveals what already lies within."
Haraza had said nothing for the past hour. He sat cross-legged, staring at the stars—his mind wandering back to all that had come before.
A farm boy in a dead-end town.
A Rift swallowing the sky.
His name rewritten in a language older than breath.
Now, nine chapters into a tale no mortal was meant to endure, he found himself on the edge again—this time not of destruction, but of clarity.
("Why do you hesitate?") Lirien asked gently.
Haraza looked at her.
("Because I feel it pulling,") he said, ("like it wants something from me. Not just a host... but an answer.")
Silence fell.
Then Caela spoke again. ("What does it ask?")
He closed his eyes. ("It wants to know if I'm ready.")
Brannock raised an eyebrow. ("And are you?")
Haraza reached out and lifted the crown. It was lighter than expected. The vines glimmered faintly, and he could feel the glyph resonance tickling the edge of his soul.
With a slow breath, he placed it upon his head.
The world stopped.
He fell.
Not through air or light or shadow—but through memory.
He was everywhere and nowhere at once. A baby's first cry. A blade striking stone. A song half-sung in a forgotten temple. Twelve Glyphs, each with a name—spoken not in words, but in purpose.
The Crown of Dominion flooded his thoughts.
He saw the First World—untouched by Rift.
He saw the Scholars of the Dawning Sky weaving glyphs into the fabric of time.
He saw a boy who looked like him, thousands of years ago, lighting a fire in the dark—and being punished by the gods for daring to bring light to a place they'd cursed.
And then, he saw the door.
It stood alone, in the middle of a field of stars.
Twelve glyphs etched in a circle around it. One for each virtue. One for each cost.
Haraza floated toward it, the crown burning brighter with every step.
When he reached out to touch the door, a voice echoed—not aloud, but through every part of him.
("One awakens the others.")
("One bears the sum.")
("One chooses the world.")
Then he woke.
Haraza gasped, eyes wide, hand gripping the edge of the pedestal. The others were already at his side, though they hadn't touched him.
("You were gone for nearly an hour,") Ryve said.
("Longer,") Caela corrected. ("Time folds in the places he walked.")
Haraza stood slowly. ("I saw the First Door.")
Lirien stiffened. ("You what?")
("It's real,") he said. ("It's behind the Twelve. And it's tied to whatever started the Rift.")
Harael exhaled. ("Then the legends were right. It was never just power. It was choice.")
Brannock sat back. ("Well, that's great. Now we just have to find the rest of the Glyph-bearers, unlock a cosmic lock older than dirt, and pray we don't get turned into stardust doing it.")
Haraza looked at each of them. ("I won't ask you to follow me further. The path ahead... it won't just break us. It may erase us.")
But Lirien shook her head. ("You're not the only one with something to fight for.")
Ryve smirked. ("You're not getting rid of me that easy.")
Brannock grinned. ("I go where the loudest explosions are.")
Caela, whispering to her shadows, nodded silently.
Harael bowed his head. ("Let it be written: we walk toward the Rift together.")
Haraza took one last look at the desert, the horizon far behind them now. The weight of destiny settled on his shoulders like an old cloak.
But he wore it willingly.
("For every life lost,") he said, ("for every kingdom broken, for every sky torn by flame—we will answer.")
He raised the crown high, and the wind screamed with ancient fire.
Twelve lights burned across the stars that night.
And in the farthest reaches of the world, others stirred—old warriors, lost glyphs, sleeping kings.
The Thorn had made his vow.
The story would not stop now.