Reconstruction began within days.

  The palace was reduced to its foundation. Entire districts of Dareth were scarred beyond recognition. But the people endured.

  Stories spread quickly.

  Of the crowned tyrant crushed beneath a demon’s claw.

  Of the assassin who wounded a god.

  And of the boy who stepped into fire and did not return.

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  No monument bore Arin’s name.

  Not because he was forgotten.

  But because no one could agree how to remember him.

  Savior.

  Martyr.

  Sealbreaker.

  Kael recovered slowly. The limp in his stride would never fully vanish, nor would the scars that marked his body.

  Children sometimes approached him in the markets.

  “Is it true?” they would ask. “Did you fight the demon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it afraid?”

  Kael would pause.

  Then answer honestly.

  “No.”

  They would always ask one final question.

  “Will it come back?”

  Kael would look toward the sky.

  The Veil shimmered faintly at dusk—barely visible, but present.

  “Not while it’s held.”

  He never said by whom.