The Pale Citadel did not sleep.
Even after the dead star cracked open like a wounded god and bled prophecy into the world, the fortress trembled with sleepless light—runes blinking, marble bones humming, shadows curling away from anything that might understand them.
And above it, the crack in the heavens remained.
A thin wound.
A trembling seam.
A mouth waiting to widen.
The arrival of Bloodthorn had been the first omen.
The second came before dawn.
I. The Queen Walks Alone
Queen Saelune did not return to her chambers.
She walked the citadel's inner spines—corridors carved inside the rib-like towers, where moonlight filtered through slits in the bone-marble walls and painted her white hair in cold halos.
Her steps were silent, but her thoughts were not.
Betrayal in the first kingdom.
Her bloodline at the center of prophecy.
The Maskbearer's claim that she was descended from the one who invited the Pale Herald.
She wanted to shout.
To tear the stars down one by one.
To scream her denial into the crack in the sky.
Instead, she whispered:
"Confessed— I will not be caged by a name I never chose."
Footsteps echoed behind her.
She didn't turn.
"Replied— Must you follow me everywhere, Maskbearer?"
He materialized beside her like a bad thought.
The crack in his mask glowed faintly.
"Explained— Prophecies move fastest when rulers walk alone."
She almost smiled. Almost.
"You think I fear the prophecy."
"I think you fear that it is right."
She stopped walking.
The citadel's spine hummed.
The air thickened.
Saelune turned to him, eyes blazing like shattered moons.
"Answered— I fear nothing but silence."
The Maskbearer tilted his head.
"Questioned— The silence that comes before surrender? Or the silence that comes after?"
Her jaw clenched.
She said nothing.
The citadel trembled again—louder this time.
The Maskbearer looked up.
"Explained— Dawn approaches. And dawn never arrives empty-handed."
II. Dawn Brings the Third Omen
A horn sounded.
Not the citadel's.
Not Bloodthorn's.
A third call.
Long.
Low.
Like the earth itself mourning.
Saelune and the Maskbearer reached a balcony overlooking the outer wall—and froze.
Beyond the gates of the Pale Citadel, the sky had turned red.
Not sunrise-red.
Blood-red.
As if the horizon were a throat slit open.
And marching beneath that bleeding light came riders in gray armor, their helms smooth as masks, their banners stitched with a single black line.
The Linewalkers.
Neutral.
Unaligned.
The watchers of celestial borders.
They never marched.
Yet here they were.
Saelune's breath caught.
"Muttered— This is impossible… Why would the Linewalkers intervene?"
The Maskbearer's hands folded behind his back.
"Answered— Because something just crossed the Veil."
The queen stiffened.
"What crossed it?"
The Maskbearer didn't look at her.
"Moaned— Something that should have stayed dead."
III. The Linewalker Regent Kneels
The gates opened without being ordered to.
They simply bowed to necessity, as all structures near prophecy do.
The Linewalker procession entered the courtyard silently—an army of gray ghosts.
At their head rode the Linewalker Regent, Arkan Vey, whose armor bore a faint crack shaped like a lightning bolt.
He dismounted.
And he knelt.
The courtiers gasped.
Bloodthorn soldiers reached for their blades.
Even the citadel's spines stopped humming.
The Regent did not kneel to kings.
Or queens.
Or gods.
But he knelt now.
"Announced— Queen Saelune Everwinter.
The border of the Seventh Sky has been breached."
Saelune stepped forward, her posture flawless.
"Replied— By whom?"
Arkan Vey lifted his head.
His voice shook.
Not from fear of her.
From fear of what followed him.
"Explained— Not whom. What.
The Pale Herald has returned.
And it now wears the shape of a man."
The courtyard fell silent.
Even the wind refused to move.
The Maskbearer whispered,
"Hissed— It begins…"
IV. The Herald's First Message Arrives
One of the Linewalkers stumbled forward, clutching something against his chest.
A sealed scroll.
Wrapped in bone-thread.
Marked with a symbol none should bear:
A single empty circle.
The sign of the First Silence.
Saelune reached for it.
The Maskbearer blocked her hand.
She glared.
"Snarled— You forget your place."
He didn't answer.
He simply tapped the scroll.
It unrolled on its own.
The parchment sighed as it opened—like lungs filling after long death.
On it was written a single line:
THE KINGDOM THAT LIES FIRST SHALL FALL FIRST.
THE KINGDOM THAT PRETENDS TO BE PURE SHALL BLEED PUREST.
Beneath it was a crescent moon drawn in drying blood.
Saelune staggered.
Merathion the Seer rushed forward, gripping her arm.
"Cried— Majesty—this is targeted.
The Pale Herald names your house."
The Maskbearer's voice was quiet.
Too quiet.
"Explained— Not names. Accuses.
And accusation is the beginning of rewriting."
V. The Moon Cracks
A tremor shook the citadel.
Not from the earth.
From above.
Saelune, the Maskbearer, the Bloodthorn envoys, the Linewalkers—all looked up.
The moon had a fracture.
A clean split.
Hair-thin.
Glowing.
Like the crack in the sky had climbed upward and taken root.
Saelune's breath turned to frost.
Whispers erupted around her:
"The moon—!"
"It bleeds—!"
"The prophecy—"
"It begins—"
Then—
CRRRAACK.
The fracture widened.
Light spilled out.
Not silver.
Not white.
Black.
Black moonlight.
Black illumination.
Black truth.
The Maskbearer exhaled slowly.
"Answered— We have one day."
Saelune's eyes snapped to him.
"One day for what?"
He met her gaze, mask glowing with a thin line of ember.
"Replied— To choose which kingdom falls first.
Because the Pale Herald will not choose for you this time.
You must offer a kingdom."
The queen's heart stopped for a beat.
Bloodthorn soldiers stepped back.
Linewalkers stared in icy dread.
The citadel trembled under the weight of the impossible demand.
Saelune whispered,
"Begged— You ask me to sacrifice my neighbors… or my own."
The Maskbearer did not blink.
"The sky demands a price.
Pay it now—
—or it will collect more later."
VI. The First Kingdom Draws Its Sword
Queen Saelune turned toward the horizon.
Toward the other kingdoms.
Toward their ancient alliances, their rivalries, their secrets.
Her voice rang across the courtyard.
Cold.
Resolute.
Unyielding.
"Announced— Summon the envoys of the Seven Kingdoms.
Tonight, we decide which kingdom will burn first."
Her soldiers bowed.
The Linewalkers saluted.
Bloodthorn envoys braced themselves.
The Maskbearer watched her with unreadable eyes.
Saelune lifted her chin toward the cracked moon.
Her final whisper carried across the courtyard:
"If fate wants a kingdom,
then fate will choke on my choice."
And somewhere far beyond the clouds—
something ancient smiled.