The nature of time is that it is a river; it flows, it erodes, and it carries things away. But for Kael Light, time was not a river. It was a frozen lake, perfectly clear and terrifyingly still.
Twenty years had passed since the breaking of the Prime Cradle.
New Aethelgard was no longer a refugee camp built on ruins, nor was it the hasty fortress of the First Decade. It was now the Jewel of the Continent, a sprawling metropolis that defied the architectural logic of the old world. The white marble of the Academy era had been fused with the brass and iron of House Ignis, creating a skyline of gleaming spires wrapped in copper conduits. Steam-trains, powered not by coal but by liquid "Dawn-Mana," wove through the city on elevated rails of glass and steel, silent save for the soft, harmonic hum of their engines.
The "Little Suns"—the children Kael had healed in the slums of Blackwall—were no longer children. They were the architects, the teachers, and the soldiers of this new age. They walked the streets with heads held high, wearing tunics of vibrant teal and gold, the colors of the Dawn.
But in the highest chamber of the Royal Spire, the King was waking up to the same nightmare he had lived for seven thousand, three hundred days.
Kael Light sat on the edge of his bed. The sheets were soaked with cold sweat. The morning sun filtered through the blast-proof glass of the balcony, illuminating a face that had not aged a single day since the night Sam Willer betrayed him.
He was thirty-nine years old.
He looked down at his hands. They were smooth, unblemished, the skin pale and tight over the muscle. There were no liver spots, no wrinkles, no scars from the thousand battles he had fought. Every night, the "Stable Agony" broke him apart, and every morning, it put him back together exactly as he was: nineteen, terrified, and powerful.
Thud. Crack.
His collarbone shifted, a wet, sickening sound that echoed in the silent room. Kael didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He simply rolled his shoulder, feeling the mana-dense calcium knit instantly. The pain was there—a blinding, white-hot spike that would have sent a normal man into shock—but to Kael, it was just the morning bell.
"Twenty years," he whispered to the empty room. His voice was the same resonant tenor of a teenager. It sickened him.
He stood up and walked to the mirror. He hated mirrors. They were the only things in the kingdom that didn't lie to him. In the glass, he saw the silver-blue ring of the Goddess Aura's blessing circling his pupils, a permanent halo of divinity that marked him as something other.
He dressed slowly. Not in the heavy velvet robes of state that Pip insisted on, but in a simple, tailored coat of black wool reinforced with Soul-Steel thread. He strapped the 'Reforged Sun' ring to his finger—now merely a symbol, as the Star-Core had been spent years ago—and clipped his sword belt to his waist.
He walked out onto the balcony.
The city was already awake. Today was the Festival of the Long Light, the twentieth anniversary of the Liberation. Flags hung from every tower. In the central plaza, beneath the statue of the Seraphim, thousands of people were gathering.
"They aren't celebrating me," Kael murmured. "They're celebrating the fact that the lights stayed on."
THEY CELEBRATE BECAUSE THEY FORGOT THE DARK, KAEL, the God's voice rumbled in his mind. The entity had aged, too—not in years, but in weight. It felt heavier, deeper, more settled in the ocean of Kael's soul. THEY THINK THE SUN IS FREE. THEY DON'T KNOW YOU ARE PAYING THE RENT IN BONE.
"Let them forget," Kael thought back. "That was the point."
A knock came at the door.
"Enter."
The door opened, and an old man walked in. He moved with a heavy limp, leaning on a cane made of polished weir-wood topped with a brass gear. His hair was almost entirely white, thinning at the crown, and his face was a landscape of deep lines and sun-spots. He wore the heavy, gold-trimmed coat of the Lord Keeper, but it hung loosely on his frame.
It was Pip.
Kael felt a sharp pang in his chest that had nothing to do with his curse. Every time he saw Pip, the gap between them widened. The street urchin who had hotwired carriages was gone, replaced by this weary, wise statesman who looked like he could be Kael's grandfather.
"You're not wearing the crown," Pip noted, his voice gravelly with age.
"It gives me a headache," Kael said, turning from the balcony. "Good morning, Lord Keeper. How are the knees?"
"Like rusty hinges," Pip grunted, shuffling to the table and pouring himself a glass of water. "Ignis offered to build me replacements, but I told him I prefer pain I can trust. Machines are too... efficient."
Pip looked at Kael. He looked at the smooth, youthful face of his King. A shadow passed over the old man's eyes—a mixture of love and a quiet, unspoken resentment.
"The Council is gathered," Pip said. "Thorne is here. He... he's resigning today, Kael. His heart can't take the altitude of the Spire anymore."
Kael stiffened. "Thorne is retiring?"
"He's seventy, Saint," Pip said gently. "Most men don't fight wars at seventy. They sit on porches and yell at clouds. Thorne has given you twenty years of overtime."
"I... I didn't realize," Kael whispered. "To me, the siege of Stormhaven feels like last week."
"I know," Pip said, reaching out to pat Kael's shoulder. His hand was spotted and trembling. "That's the tragedy of it, isn't it? You're the King of the Dawn, but you're stuck in the night before. Come on. Don't make the old man wait."
The Council Chamber had changed over the decades. The simple wooden table of the early years had been replaced by a massive slab of obsidian, inlaid with a holographic map of the continent projected by Dawn-Mana crystals.
At the head of the table sat Lord Ignis.
If Pip had aged, Ignis had evolved. The man was barely organic anymore. His entire lower body had been replaced by a chaotic, spider-like chassis of brass legs that allowed him to move without pain. His torso was a cage of copper ribs, glowing with the soft blue light of a mini-reactor. Only half of his face remained human, wrinkled and sagging, contrasting horribly with the gleaming metal of his skull.
To his right sat Commander Thorne. The Iron-Guard legend was seated in a wheelchair. His armor was gone, replaced by a simple tunic. He looked frail, his massive frame shrunk by time, but his eyes were still hard as flint.
And in the corner, leaning against the shadows, was Garret. The Alpha of the Moon-Scarred hadn't aged a day. Werewolves, like Kael, were tied to a cycle that defied mortal time. Garret gave Kael a small nod—a gesture of solidarity between the ageless.
"My Lords," Kael said, taking his seat. The chair groaned under the hidden density of his mana-reinforced body.
"Your Majesty," Thorne wheezed, his voice thin. "I offer my resignation. My grandson, Kaelen... he is ready to take the Black Plate. He led the border patrol last winter. He has the steel."
"Kaelen is a good soldier," Kael said, his voice soft. "I accept, Thorne. But you do not leave this table. You remain as High Advisor until... until you choose to rest."
Thorne smiled, a weak trembling of his lips. "You always were too soft on us, Weeper. A real King would have put me out to pasture ten years ago."
"We have other matters," Ignis interrupted, his synthesized voice devoid of emotion. He tapped the table, and the holographic map zoomed in on the southern border. "The sensors in the Silent Tundra—what's left of it—are picking up seismic activity."
"The Frost Lords?" Pip asked.
"No," Ignis said. "The ice is gone. This is... mechanical. Heavy vibrations. Deep earth tremors. It matches the signature of the Iron Sultanate's mining rigs, but the scale is... wrong. It's too big."
"The Sultanate has been quiet for twenty years," Kael said, drumming his fingers on the obsidian. "They signed the Treaty of Ash. They demilitarized."
"Empires don't sleep, Father," Garret rumbled. "They just hold their breath. The Sultanate is an engine. Engines need fuel. If they aren't burning coal, what are they burning?"
"We'll send scouts," Kael decided. "Garret, send a pack to the southern ridge. If the Iron Men are digging, I want to know what they're looking for."
"Done," Garret said.
"There is one more thing," Ignis said. The map shifted to the Royal Spire itself. "The Twins. Castor and Pollux. Their output has increased by fifteen percent in the last month. The venting system is at capacity. If they spike again... the Grid will overload."
Kael rubbed his temples. "They're seventeen now. They aren't children anymore. Their mana is maturing."
"They are restless," Martha's voice came from the doorway.
The Matron of the Healing Halls walked in. She used a walker now, her back bent, but her uniform was pristine. "They've been locked in the Spire for ten years, Kael. They watch the festivals from a window. They are teenagers with the power of a star, and they are bored. Boredom is dangerous for Source-Vessels."
"I can't let them out," Kael said, frustration leaking into his voice. "If Castor throws a tantrum, he vaporizes a city block. If Pollux gets scared, she freezes the harbor."
"They want to see you," Martha said. "They asked for the King."
Kael stood up. "Meeting adjourned. I'll go to the containment deck."
The Containment Deck was the penthouse of the Royal Spire. It was a luxurious cage—a sprawling apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a 360-degree view of the kingdom. The walls were lined with mana-dampening lead and inscribed with runes of suppression.
When Kael entered, the air tasted of ozone and mint.
Castor was floating cross-legged in the center of the room. He was a handsome young man with wild, golden hair and eyes that literally glowed. He was juggling balls of pure white fire, tossing them casually from hand to hand.
Pollux sat by the window, reading a book. She was striking, her hair a cascade of silver-white, her skin pale as moonlight. The air around her was frosted; snowflakes drifted from her fingertips as she turned the pages.
They were beautiful. And they were terrifying.
"The Warden returns," Castor said, not looking up from his juggling. "Come to check the locks, Your Majesty?"
"Castor, be nice," Pollux said, her voice cool and melodious. She closed the book. "He's the only reason we aren't batteries in a Sultanate flashlight."
"We're batteries here, Poll," Castor snapped, crushing a fireball in his fist. It exploded with a muffled thump, the energy instantly sucked into the vents in the ceiling. "We just have a better view."
Kael walked into the room. The "Stable Agony" reacted to their presence, his bones humming in sympathy with their immense mana-pressure.
"I am not your warden," Kael said. "I am your shield. You know what happens if you step outside without the dampeners."
"We explode," Castor mocked. "Boom. Tragedy. We know the script, Kael. We've heard it for a decade."
Castor floated down, landing toe-to-toe with Kael. He was taller than Kael now. He looked down at the King who looked like a teenager.
"I can feel it, you know," Castor whispered. "The Agony. It's louder today. You're hurting."
"I am always hurting," Kael said flatly.
"Let us help," Pollux said, standing up. She walked over, the floor freezing beneath her bare feet. "We can stabilize you. Castor's heat, my cold. We could neutralize the breaking."
"No," Kael said sharply. "My curse is my own. If you touch my mana, the God inside me will eat your light. I am keeping you safe from him as much as from the world."
"The world..." Castor looked out the window at the festival below. "They're celebrating down there. Eating cakes. Dancing. Do they even know we exist? Or do they just think the lights stay on by magic?"
"They know," Kael lied. "You are the Heroes of the North."
"We are the Monsters in the Attic," Castor corrected. "And one day, Kael... one day the attic is going to get too small."
Suddenly, the room shook.
It wasn't a tremor from the twins. It came from outside.
The alarms in the Spire began to wail—a harsh, mechanical shriek that cut through the festive music of the city.
Ignis's voice burst over the intercom. "Saint! Sector Four! Aerial breach! Unidentified vessel entering the airspace!"
Kael turned to the window.
Through the clouds to the south, a shape emerged. It wasn't a bird. It wasn't a dragon.
It was an airship. But not the sleek, mana-driven slip-runners of the Academy. This was a monstrosity of black iron and rivets, held aloft by massive, rotating turbines and a balloon made of stitched grey leather. It spewed thick, black smoke that trailed behind it like a stain on the sky.
The sigil painted on the side was a red gear grinding a skull.
The Iron Sultanate.
"They're back," Castor whispered, his eyes flaring with excitement and fear. "The Iron Men."
"Stay here," Kael commanded, his voice dropping to the deep, vibrating octave of the Blood Weeper. "Do not leave this room. Do not release your power unless I give the order."
"But Kael—" Pollux started.
"That is a command!" Kael roared. The air in the room shattered, the sheer pressure of his voice cracking the reinforced glass.
He turned and ran for the lift.
By the time Kael reached the Grand Plaza, the airship had descended. It hovered ominously above the statue of the Seraphim, its turbines kicking up dust and blowing away the festival decorations. The crowd of thousands stood frozen, staring up at the iron leviathan.
A ramp lowered from the belly of the ship.
A squad of Iron-Jacks marched out. Their armor had evolved in twenty years. They were no longer just men in suits; they were fully mechanized hulks, their limbs replaced by pneumatic pistons, their faces hidden behind masks of glowing red glass.
In the center of the squad walked a man. He was not a soldier. He was dressed in the impeccable, oil-stained finery of a Diplomat-Engineer. He wore a monocle that glowed with data-streams, and he carried a cane made of white Soul-Steel.
Kael walked through the parting crowd. The Iron-Guard formed a perimeter around him, Thorne at his side in his wheelchair, holding a pistol with a shaking hand.
"I am King Kael Light of New Aethelgard," Kael announced, his voice carrying over the sound of the turbines. "You are violating the Treaty of Ash. State your intent, or be removed."
The Diplomat smiled. It was a cold, calculated expression.
"King Light," the man said, his voice amplified by a speaker in his throat. "I am Envoy Karn. I bring greetings from the Emperor of the Iron Gears."
"The Emperor has no business here," Kael said. "Turn your ship around."
"Oh, but we do," Karn said, tapping his cane on the cobblestones. "You see, for twenty years, we have watched you. We have watched your city glow while our foundries went cold. We have watched you hoard the light."
Karn gestured to the Spire behind Kael.
"We know what is in the attic, King Light. We know about the Binary Stars."
A ripple of unease went through the crowd.
"The Treaty of Ash is null and void," Karn declared. "The Emperor has built a new machine. A Great Engine. And it requires fuel. High-grade fuel."
Karn pulled a scroll from his coat. He didn't hand it to Kael. He threw it on the ground.
"This is the Iron Ultimatum. You have twenty-four hours to surrender the Source-Vessels known as Castor and Pollux to the Sultanate custody. If you refuse... the Great Engine will not just conquer this city. It will consume it."
Kael looked at the scroll. He looked at the terrified faces of his people. He looked at the balcony of the Spire, where he knew two teenagers were watching.
The "Stable Agony" spiked.
CRACK.
Kael's radius snapped. The pain clarified the world.
"You want my children?" Kael whispered.
He stepped forward. The air around him began to distort. The "Dawn-Mana" in the streetlights flickered, turning a dark, bruised violet.
"You come into my home," Kael said, walking toward the Envoy. "On the day of my peace. And you threaten to eat my family?"
"It is simple calculus," Karn sneered, backing up slightly as the Iron-Jacks leveled their weapons. "Physics dictates that the strong take from the weak. And you, King Light... you are just a boy playing with a battery."
Kael stopped. He looked at the Iron-Jacks. He looked at the airship.
"Ignis," Kael said into his comms. "Drop the shields."
"Saint?" Ignis asked. "If I drop the shields, they can fire on the crowd."
"Drop. The. Shields."
The shimmering dome over the city vanished.
Karn laughed. "Surrendering already? Wise."
"No," Kael said.
He raised his hand. The 'Reforged Sun' ring flared. But he didn't cast a beam. He cast a Curse.
He reached into the "Stable Agony" and pulled out twenty years of accumulated pain—every broken bone, every sleepless night, every moment of isolation. He condensed it into a single, psychic frequency.
"Ancient Art: The Transfusion of the Martyr's Weight."
He pointed at the Envoy and the squad of Iron-Jacks.
"Feel it," Kael whispered.
The spell hit them.
It wasn't physical damage. It was sensation. Kael transferred the sensory experience of his "Stable Agony" into their nervous systems.
The Envoy screamed. It was a sound that tore his throat apart. He fell to the ground, clawing at his own chest, convinced his ribs were shattering. The Iron-Jacks collapsed, their mechanized limbs flailing as their human brains were overloaded by the phantom pain of a thousand fractures.
"Physics," Kael said, standing over the writhed Envoy, "cannot calculate suffering."
The crowd watched in horrified silence. Their King, their Saint, had incapacitated a squad of elite soldiers without touching them. They saw the violet blood weeping from his eyes. They saw the monster beneath the crown.
Kael looked up at the airship. The crew on the deck stared down in terror.
"Go back to your Emperor," Kael roared, his voice shaking the rivets of the ship. "Tell him the Ultimatum is rejected. Tell him... if he wants the stars, he'll have to burn for them."
The Envoy, Karn, gasped, blood foaming at his mouth. "You... you doom... everyone..."
Kael stepped on the scroll, grinding it into the dirt.
"Get him out of my city," Kael commanded the Iron-Guard.
As the Sultanate ship retreated, dragging their screaming Envoy with them, Kael turned to his Council.
Pip was pale. Thorne looked grim. Garret was smiling a wolf's smile.
"They'll be back," Thorne said. "With the whole army."
"I know," Kael said. He looked up at the Spire. "Prepare the twins. If they want the Binary Stars... we're going to give them a demonstration."
The Second Decade was over. The Long Peace was dead.