Requiem of the Awakened

The footage spread faster than any decree.

Grainy, unstable, captured from rooftops and hidden lenses. But the world didn't need clarity. They just needed the image:

Malik Graves, standing amid a crater of spectral fire, an army of dead behind him, his shadow devouring Guild banners under his feet.

By morning, no continent was quiet.

In the Silver Vaults of Geneva, High Guildmaster Vellin slammed his hand into the armrest of the War Council throne.

"He's turned Arcaven into a symbol."

"He was already a symbol," muttered Strategist Orla. "Now he's a movement."

Across the table, General Harthi—one of the last Sovereign-class warriors alive—leaned forward. "This is our failure. Not just Arcaven. We forgot what a Graves really meant."

"We underestimated him," Vellin spat. "Again."

"And the people are rallying," Orla added. "Protests in Calda, riots in Viderra, disobedience from half of Sector 12."

Vellin stood.

"Then we remind them who holds the world together."

Meanwhile, in the Underfolds beneath Lagos, where the Guild's eye did not reach, the criminal networks of the world gathered.

They watched the same footage.

And instead of fear—they felt hope.

A name echoed in the chamber.

"Gravesend."

"The Ashen Sovereign."

"No," said a voice from the dark.

"Call him what he is now…"

"The Crownless King."

In the frozen catacombs of the North, something ancient stirred.

It had no name.

Only intent.

The Guild's systems marked it as Entity R-7, once sealed by ten High Echoers and buried beneath seven miles of ice.

But when Malik ignited the grave under Arcaven…

R-7 opened its eyes.

In Malik's camp, the aftermath was quiet.

No celebration.

Just recalibration.

Elaris stood on the edge of their temporary shelter, watching a trio of Echo spheres hover in a silent guard pattern. Naomi cleaned her gear, hands moving with methodical calm.

Malik sat by the fire, mark pulsing softly.

Anacaona returned from patrol, spear humming.

"Word's out," she said. "Guilds are splintering."

"How bad?" Malik asked.

"Depends. Some want to fight. Some want to negotiate. Others…"

"Want to hide," Elaris finished.

Naomi looked up. "Let them."

Malik didn't speak.

Because he knew the most dangerous ones weren't the loudest.

They were the ones planning in silence.

That night, he dreamed.

Not of fire or war.

But of Vel'Thural.

He stood again before the Empty Crown—but this time, someone else wore it.

A shadowed figure.

Tall. Broad. Unfamiliar… yet him.

It smiled without warmth.

"You're late," it said.

He awoke before dawn.

The Fourth stirred.

You saw it.

"Yes."

The other path.

"Yes."

And still you walk forward?

"Yes."

Then I follow.

By morning, two messages arrived.

One on a black-feathered drone.

One by Echo signal.

Both carried the same phrase:

"Parliament of Flame convenes. You are invited. Or hunted."

Malik didn't hesitate.

"We go," he said.

Naomi blinked. "The Parliament? That's suicide."

"Or an opportunity," Anacaona said.

"They hate the Guild," Elaris added. "But they don't love necromancers."

"They don't have to love me," Malik said. "They just have to listen."

The Parliament of Flame wasn't a location.

It was an event.

And it happened once every ten years—in a shifting location, veiled from satellites, spells, and sovereign sight.

It was where Guild deserters, independent factions, war clans, and exiled Sovereigns gathered to discuss the future the Guild had no say in.

And now, for the first time, Malik was invited.

They traveled by night.

Through leyline tunnels forgotten by cartographers, across plains no longer on maps.

At one point, they crossed paths with a convoy of nomad cultivators—who saw Malik's face, bowed in silence, and vanished without a word.

Elaris smirked. "I think your fame's getting annoying."

"Good," Malik replied.

They reached the Parliament's location on the seventh night.

A massive crater city, surrounded by vertical cliffs, lit only by crimson lanterns powered by unstable Echo cores. Airships hovered above, while armored cultivators patrolled streets below.

The gatekeeper stopped them.

Then saw Malik's face.

And stepped aside.

Inside, the Parliament roared.

Factions argued across bridges. Spells flared, duels broke out, truths were bought and buried in the same breath.

Malik walked the central hall like it belonged to him.

And for the first time in centuries—

It did.

The Speaker of Flame, a blind woman wreathed in gold-threaded robes, stood at the center altar.

Her voice stopped the crowd.

"Malik Graves. Necromancer. Sovereign. Crownless."

She raised a hand.

"Do you come to declare peace or war?"

Malik stepped forward.

And in a voice like thunder wrapped in calm:

"Neither."

"I come to rewrite the rules."

Gasps. Laughter. Some drew blades.

Others simply waited.

Malik raised his hand—and summoned a memory.

The battlefield of Arcaven shimmered in illusion.

Thousands watched.

Silence fell.

Then applause.

From the unlikeliest corner—

The Guildbreakers.

An infamous rogue group. Former Guild loyalists turned revolutionaries. The leader stepped forward—covered in scar tattoos, his body glowing with anti-suppression runes.

"I saw what you did," the man said. "You didn't seize the city."

"I freed it," Malik corrected.

The man grinned.

"Then I vote to follow."

One by one, others joined.

Not all.

But enough.

The Parliament didn't end with declarations.

It ended with an accord.

A secret one.

Written in blood and Echo.

That Malik would lead a new coalition—not of rebels, but of witnesses.

Those who would hold the Guild accountable.

Those who would fight not just for power—but for purpose.

As Malik left the Parliament's altar, Naomi walked beside him.

"You realize what you just did?"

"Yes," Malik said.

"You've started a war."

"No," he replied.

"I've made one inevitable. Now I'm just making sure we win it."

Later that night, in a chamber reserved for high-level emissaries, Malik studied the new map projected from the Parliament's Echo net.

It glowed with three points.

Guild strongholds.

Underworld caches.

And…

One new point.

No name.

Just a frequency.

Unknown origin.

Elaris entered, looking tense.

"You'll want to see this."

She projected an intercepted message from the Guild.

It wasn't orders.

It was begging.

One Guild Sovereign had gone missing after touching the signal Malik had just seen.

Another claimed to have "heard the Crown speak."

Malik leaned forward.

"They're unraveling."

Elaris nodded. "And they'll get desperate."

In a forgotten cell beneath the Parliament, a prisoner watched Malik from afar.

Once, she'd served the Guild.

Now, she wore silence like armor.

Her eyes followed him.

And she smiled.

Not in hope.

But in prophecy.

"He walks the line," she whispered.

"The Crownless King will either save us…"

"Or doom us all."