Requiem of the Awakened

The stars above the Wastes pulsed a little too slowly.

Like they were watching.

Like they remembered.

Malik sat cross-legged beside the embers of last night's fire, the sky still dark, his thoughts even darker. The others slept—though Naomi's flame had dimmed rather than vanished, and Elaris never really slept at all.

Only Anacaona truly rested, her stillness like a blade unsheathed but untouched.

The mark on Malik's palm pulsed again.

Not in warning this time.

But in recognition.

Something ahead called to him.

Not just the Fourth Summon's influence.

Something older.

Buried beneath bone and guilt.

The map he'd recovered from the Herald's collapse was etched in half-forgotten glyphs, coordinates that aligned with nowhere known to the current Guild archives.

But Malik knew better.

He traced the angles with his fingers and found it—an old ruin once whispered about in the Age of Severance.

Vel'Thural.

A city buried beneath sand and sacrifice.

A place Sovereigns feared to name aloud.

And at its center, something sealed by a pact older than cultivation itself.

A throne.

Empty.

But waiting.

By morning, they were moving.

The journey took them west, through dust plains and fractured ley lines, across Echo-bleached valleys where even summons flickered with distortion. No modern transport could reach Vel'Thural. No portals opened within fifty miles of it.

Whatever sealed it… wanted it that way.

Even Obsidian hesitated as they drew closer, choosing to circle from above rather than walk the sands with the group.

Malik said nothing.

He understood fear like that.

He'd created it once.

Three days in, they crested the final ridge.

And saw it.

Vel'Thural.

Not buried.

Not sunken.

But folded. As if a city had been snapped in half, pressed between dimensions, and then partially uncrumpled just to be seen again.

Spikes of obsidian jutted through golden sand. Crumbling towers leaned against one another like broken fingers. Black crystal veins throbbed faintly in the twilight, running along ancient roadways that no one had walked in millennia.

Naomi stood at the edge of the cliff. "It looks like it's… bleeding through reality."

"It is," Malik said.

Elaris narrowed her eyes. "What did you say this place is again?"

"A city Sovereigns sealed themselves inside to forget," Malik replied.

Anacaona stepped forward, jaw tight. "Then why are we going in?"

Malik looked over his shoulder.

"Because they failed."

They entered just before sunset.

And immediately, the city reacted.

The sand beneath their boots hardened into solid black glass. The sky above dimmed—not darkened, dimmed, as if someone had turned the brightness of the world down by instinct.

Sigils sparked to life on crumbled walls. Statues turned ever so slightly.

Something watched.

Something waited.

They reached the center by midnight.

A broken plaza with five concentric circles carved into its stone, each pulsing faintly with Echo.

Malik stepped into the middle.

And the world screamed.

Not outside.

Inside him.

The Fourth recoiled.

Anacaona flinched, her weapon vibrating in defense.

Elaris snarled, blades drawn.

Naomi collapsed to one knee, flames guttering in her eyes.

Malik didn't move.

He let it in.

The memory.

He stood—not in Vel'Thural, but in a throne room untouched by time.

Everything gleamed. Marble veined with starlight. Drapes woven from shadow. A ceiling painted with the names of those who chose power over peace.

And at the center—

The Empty Crown.

A circlet of blackened metal, untouched by dust, pulsing with a heartbeat not its own.

Malik took a step toward it.

And the illusion shattered.

He was back in the plaza.

Breathing hard.

The others hadn't seen what he'd seen.

But they knew he'd seen something.

Naomi touched his shoulder. "What happened?"

"I saw the Crown," he said.

Elaris didn't speak.

Anacaona lowered her weapon. "You can't wear it."

"No," Malik agreed. "But I think I already did."

Before anyone could respond, the plaza trembled.

Something below stirred.

An ancient mechanism, half-buried, half-awake.

And then—stone shifted.

A staircase revealed itself, spiraling downward into blackness deeper than death.

Elaris raised a brow. "Let me guess. We're going down there."

Malik nodded. "It's not just the Crown."

Naomi looked at him. "There's something else?"

"A memory," Malik said.

"A warning."

The descent took hours.

The deeper they went, the less real the world felt.

Words unspoken echoed in their ears.

Whispers from their childhoods, regrets they'd never voiced, secrets they thought buried.

Vel'Thural wasn't a ruin.

It was a mirror.

And it showed them only what they feared.

At the bottom, they found a chamber.

Circular.

Massive.

At its center stood a stone table.

And on that table…

A coffin.

Naomi inhaled sharply. "Is that…"

"Yes," Malik said.

"A Sovereign," Anacaona whispered.

Elaris tilted her head. "Dead?"

"Mostly," Malik answered.

He stepped forward.

The air thickened.

Not with magic.

But expectation.

He placed his hand on the coffin.

And it opened.

Inside lay a woman.

Eyes closed.

Skin unmarred.

Hair flowing like liquid ink across the stone.

But Malik knew her.

Everyone in the old world did.

The last one to wear the Empty Crown.

Empress Sareth.

Her eyes opened.

They were empty.

Yet Malik felt like she saw him.

"Gravewalker," she whispered.

"Why are you here?"

"I seek the truth," he replied.

She smiled.

Bitter. Broken.

"Then die again."

The room erupted.

Chains shot from the walls. Flames inverted. Time halted for half a second before stuttering forward in jolts.

Anacaona moved first, intercepting a spear of soulfire.

Naomi screamed defiance, hurling arcs of flame that didn't burn, but remembered.

Elaris danced, cutting runes mid-air to sever the resurrection glyphs.

And Malik?

He walked to the center.

Unbothered.

Unflinching.

Sareth rose, her feet never touching the floor.

"You want the Empty Crown," she hissed.

"I want to end the cycle," Malik replied.

"You are the cycle."

He shook his head. "Not this time."

Their auras collided.

His—cold, vast, endless.

Hers—sharp, refined, brittle from eons of decay.

Power clashed.

But only one of them remembered what it meant to fight without purpose.

Malik had purpose.

He didn't use summons.

Didn't draw a weapon.

He stepped forward.

And spoke one sentence.

"You had your chance."

Then he placed his hand on her chest.

And whispered her name.

Her true name.

Not Sareth.

But Aluna.

Her scream cracked the chamber.

And she vanished.

Not in death.

In release.

The last tether undone.

The echo unbound.

The past forgiven.

The room dimmed.

Only Malik stood, breathing slow.

The table was empty.

But behind it…

A wall cracked.

And inside that wall—

A throne.

Not ornate.

Not gilded.

Just stone.

Cold. Unused.

And above it, floating—

A crown.

Naomi whispered, "That's it."

Elaris stared. "Why is it here?"

Malik didn't answer.

He walked to the throne.

Stood before the crown.

But didn't touch it.

Not yet.

Instead, he looked up.

And spoke into the darkness.

"I remember now."

"Then we do too," a thousand voices answered.

The Unknowns had heard.

The Guild had felt it.

The world had changed.

Again.

And the Crown still waited.