The dreams returned that night.
But they were not Caelan's.
He woke choking on smoke. His eyes burned. His body convulsed on the cold stone floor of his chamber as fire licked at a forest that wasn't there. A name clawed at his throat—but it wasn't his. A scream echoed, and though his mouth stayed shut, it rang from somewhere deep inside him.
He saw a tree.
Not a tree of bark and branch—but one of bone and light, burning at its crown with a flame that gave no heat, only memory. Beneath it stood three figures: one cloaked in silver, one cloaked in ash, and one faceless.
The silver one held a blade of starlight.
The ashen one bore a shattered crown.
And the faceless one wept.
Then Caelan's vision snapped—and he awoke.
The floor beneath him was scorched in a spiral.
The ring on his hand glowed a dull, bloody red.
The Second Mark had stirred.
Seraphyne was already there.
She said nothing about his state—only nodded once and gestured for him to follow.
They descended again. Not to Blackspire. Not to the Archive.
But deeper.
This time, the castle opened paths it had never revealed. Halls of rough-hewn stone, corridors without windows, arches that bent like ribs in a sleeping giant. Candles lit themselves as they passed, burning with black flame.
At last, they arrived at a circular chamber lit by a single suspended lantern. A pool of dark water lay at its center—still and silent.
Velrath was waiting.
"You were seen," he said. "The mark awakened without consent."
Caelan looked to Seraphyne, but she remained silent.
Velrath continued, "The Second Mark is not a gift. It is a summoning."
Caelan frowned. "What does that mean?"
"It means something old has chosen to remember you."
He pointed to the pool.
"Step in. Alone."
The water was freezing. But not wet.
It pulled Caelan downward, though he did not sink. The reflection twisted. The lantern light above dimmed.
And he was elsewhere.
Not a dream.
Not a vision.
A memory.
He stood in a temple of black glass, its pillars cracked and bleeding silver mist. Statues lined the walls—headless, winged, ancient. Above him, the moon was split in two, and between the shards hung a red star.
A voice echoed:
"Blood was never meant to rule. But rule it did."
From the far end of the temple, a figure approached.
She wore no armor.
No crown.
Only a white robe, tattered and trailing ash.
Her eyes were burning suns.
"Do you know me?" she asked.
Caelan shook his head.
"You should. You carry what I gave."
She raised a hand.
A second fragment of the crown floated there.
"This is memory," she said. "This is burden. This is choice."
"Who are you?" he asked.
"I am what was left behind when prophecy failed."
She placed the crown fragment against his chest.
Pain lanced through him—not fire, not ice, but a shattering.
He saw a battlefield. Thousands dead. Vampires. Werewolves. A throne split in half. A child cradled in blood. And a name—spoken by none, yet heard by all.
Caelan.
He awoke again.
The chamber was empty. The water gone.
But at his feet lay the second fragment.
This one gleamed with a vein of silver and a line of crimson down its edge.
Seraphyne appeared in the doorway, her face unreadable.
"It is done," she said.
"Who was she?" Caelan asked.
Seraphyne didn't answer.
Velrath did.
"She was the one who bore the crown's weight before you. And broke beneath it."
"Was she Duskwither?"
"She was the crown."
The Second Mark had chosen him. Not gently. Not quietly.
And now the kingdom would feel its echo.