No one moved.
Because impossible had already happened too many times—
and this was worse.
The figure seated upon the Throne of Roots wore Aran's face.
Not similar.
Not ancestral.
His face.
Older.
Severe.
Crowned in black stone thorns.
Eyes closed as if sleeping.
Waiting.
Kalen broke the silence first.
"…Why are there always more of him?"
A fair question.
Even Azrakar stopped fighting.
For the first time—
uncertainty crossed the Blood King's face.
The Deep Root Sovereign bowed its head slightly toward the throne.
Reverence.
That terrified Aran more than anything.
Lena whispered,
"Who is that?"
Aran felt cold recognition crawling through memory.
Not full understanding.
Something worse.
Familiarity.
Then the Sovereign answered.
The First Heir.
The title echoed through the chamber.
Tazruth staggered upright.
"No…"
He looked genuinely afraid.
The guardian dropped to one knee.
Ancient oath forcing submission.
Azrakar whispered,
"He still sleeps."
Still.
As if this had happened before.
Aran stepped toward the abyss despite himself.
The marks on his arm blazed.
The Mountain Fang trembled in his hand.
Responding.
Calling to its first owner.
The seated figure's eyes opened.
White fire.
The whole mountain shook.
Then he spoke.
And Aran heard his own voice from another age.
"You came back broken."
Lena grabbed Aran's arm.
"Don't go near that thing."
Wise.
Possibly impossible.
The First Heir rose from the throne.
Slowly.
Every movement made reality around him distort.
Roots curled.
Stone bent.
Even blood in Aran's veins seemed to answer.
Kalen whispered,
I preferred gods."
The Heir stepped down from the throne.
One step.
The abyss deepened.
Second step.
The blood lake began boiling.
Third step—
Aran's memories ruptured.
He saw the truth.
Azran had not been merely heir to the mountains.
He had split himself.
Once.
Long ago.
To prevent becoming what stood before him.
The First Heir.
His original whole self.
And Aran—
was the severed mercy left behind.
He staggered.
"No…"
The Heir smiled faintly.
"Now you remember."
Azrakar looked almost proud.
"My son restored."
Lena stepped in front of Aran.
"No."
Simple.
Absolute.
The Heir regarded her curiously.
"You protect a fragment from its completion."
Lena raised her blade.
"I protect my friend."
Something unreadable crossed the Heir's face.
Then vanished.
He raised one hand.
Mountains answered.
Stone spears erupted from the floor.
Battle resumed in chaos.
Tazruth attacked the Sovereign.
Azrakar moved against Lena.
Kalen screamed something heroic or terrified—
hard to tell—
while fighting blood warriors.
And Aran faced himself.
The Heir summoned a blade of black-root fire.
Twin to the Mountain Fang.
They collided.
White against abyss.
The chamber split.
The Heir pressed harder.
Stronger.
Older.
Merciless.
"You divided because you feared what victory required."
Aran pushed back.
"I divided because genocide is not salvation."
The Heir's eyes narrowed.
"Still weak."
Then he showed Aran visions.
Worlds consumed.
Mountains dead.
Bloodlines erased.
And one future—
where only ruthless rule survives.
Temptation hid inside terror.
Join.
Become whole.
End the war.
The offer lingered.
Then Lena shouted his name.
Cutting through it.
Aran looked at her.
At those who chose him as he is.
Not what he was.
And decided.
He broke the blade lock—
not by overpowering—
but by letting go.
The Mountain Fang dissolved into blood-light.
The Heir faltered.
Unexpected.
Aran drove both hands into the Heir's chest.
The marks on his arm erupted.
Red sigils wrapped around them both.
The Sovereign roared.
Azrakar shouted in sudden alarm.
Tazruth stared.
"He is invoking the Sundering…"
Ancient forbidden act.
Aran whispered to his other self:
"I will not become you."
Then the sigils activated.
And the First Heir screamed.