Kell and Highlady Ysara sat alone in her private chambers. The room, tucked high within Keep Ysara, was a blend of elegance and practicality. Velvet drapes muted the late-afternoon light, casting soft shadows over carved shelves and sparse but tasteful furnishings. A single tea service sat untouched between them, cooling with every passing minute.
Outside, the city of Valebast breathed war. The Bound Faith's presence had grown too loud, its doctrine too sharp.
"The king is to blame for this," Kell said. His voice carried the tired certainty of a man who had waited too long to speak the obvious. "The man is corrupt. He must've known what the Bound were doing. Maybe even sanctioned it."
Ysara said nothing at first. She leaned back in her chair, gaze distant. The weight of nobility sat across her shoulders like a cloak stitched from stone.
"Can't give the Crown to the Bound," she said at last. "Can't give it to the Unbound. Can't give it to the king. What exactly are our options, Captain?"
Kell studied her for a long moment. There was a sharpness to her that hadn't dulled over the years. A steel hidden behind silks. She had not inherited her position. She had earned it. He set down his cup.
"Do you want the throne, my lady?"
Her gaze snapped to him, startled. "Pardon?"
He didn't flinch. "That Crown whispers corruption to whoever holds it. It bends them. Tempts them. But if someone must hold it, we can't afford for that someone to be a fool, a tyrant, or a zealot. We need someone incorruptible. And I believe that person is you."
Ysara let out a breath between clenched teeth. She rose from her chair and walked to the arched window. Beyond the glass, banners flapped in a slow wind. The sigil of House Ysara, a silver tree rooted in black stone, waved beside the Bound's emblem.
"You think too broad, Kell. Always have," she murmured. "The throne isn't the problem. It's the foundation beneath it. The faith rules through the king. The Bound define justice, divinity, and law. If you really want to change this kingdom, you don't sit on the throne."
She turned back to him. "You burn the pulpit."
Kell nodded slowly. "Behead the faith. Remove the Bound. Replace them with leaders who actually believe in the principles they claim."
"Exactly. Faith without corruption. Leadership without fanaticism. The people need something to believe in, Kell. But they don't need to be manipulated."
"It would take more than soldiers," he said. "You'd need scholars. Reformers. Historians."
"We have one of those," Ysara replied. "And a thief who can walk through walls. And you, Captain. If you could stir hope in battle-worn men, you can rally cities."
Kell gave a humorless smile. "Sounds like a revolution."
"Sounds like survival."
Down in the underground of the keep, Whistle crouched beside the chamber door, one eye peering through the keyhole like a nosy aunt. His boots squeaked slightly on the polished floor.
"Someone's coming," he said over his shoulder. "Slim fellow. Ugly fellow. Guessing our artificer."
Ithren didn't look up from her papers. She was deep in ink, mapping out possible energy transference from fractured gems.
Whistle stepped aside just in time as the door creaked open. He leaned back and stretched as if he hadn't been eavesdropping.
Two soldiers entered, followed by a man draped in a long soot-stained robe. He was thin to the point of looking malnourished, with long black hair tied back in a tail and a pointy chin that seemed to pierce the air before him. His eyes, though, they darted like blades.
Behind him came in Highlady Ysara and Captain Kell.
"Where is it?" the artificer said.
Torik stood and lifted the sack. "In here. Can you fix it?"
The artificer held out a hand, then hesitated. "Open it. Slowly."
Torik complied, unwrapping the cloth. The fractured Crown shimmered beneath the room's lanterns, its broken gem pulsing with a light like a heartbeat.
The man flinched. "It's awake."
"It speaks too," Torik added. "If you listen too long."
The artificer turned away and reached into a case strapped to his back. From within, he drew a gem, deep green, perfectly cut. Its facets seemed to bend light unnaturally, like it warped the air around it.
He laid out tools: silver tongs, heatstones, tiny chisels. He cleared a space on the table, and with a single nod from Ysara, he began.
The process was slow. Agonizingly so.
Torik, Kell, Ithren, and Whistle stood in silence as the artificer worked. He wore gloves lined with runes that glowed faintly when they neared the Crown. Each time he touched the gem, the light pulsed like it resisted him.
Sweat poured down his face within minutes. His breathing grew ragged. And slowly, the whispers began.
He froze mid-motion, eyes wide. "No... No, I won't..."
Ithren stepped forward. "He's hearing it. Pull him out."
Kell moved fast, grabbing the man by the shoulders and shaking him. "Stay with us. Focus."
The artificer blinked rapidly. "It offered me a name... It knew my name..."
"Focus," Kell barked.
He nodded, shuddering, and returned to work.
The man began mumbling to himself, Kell stepped forward again but Torik stopped him.
"Let me try something." He said resolute.
Torik entered his mind with his own veilbinding, and showed him images to calm him, he was no longer working in this dungeon he was in a field. He felt another force there… it had to be Tharoghul.
It attacked him, trying to overpower him but he struck back, and it cowered.
The man got back to work.
For hours, he labored. Heating the gem. Aligning it with the Crown's socket. Etching wards around the setting to contain divine leakage. Each step required precise energy calibration.
At one point, the Crown flashed white. Everyone staggered.
Torik saw a flash, not of the room, but of a throne room made of obsidian, fire licking the steps. A thing sat atop it, or perhaps a god, though no face was visible.
"I am waiting," a voice whispered.
Then the vision was gone.
The artificer collapsed backward, gasping. The Crown now sat still on the table. The fracture was gone.
The room held its breath.
Ithren stepped forward first, inspecting the work. Her fingers glided over the seams.
"It's holding," she whispered. "I don't know for how long, but... it's whole."
Kell knelt beside the artificer. "You alright?"
"I'll live," he wheezed. "But keep that thing away from anyone with ambition. It wants to be used."
Ysara approached, quiet and steady. She looked down at the Crown.
"Now the real work begins."
Kell nodded. "Yes, my lady. It does."
And the Crown, whole once more, pulsed gently.
As if pleased.
As if amused.