Shattered Soul, Boundless World

Asher's fury was volcanic—barely caged, barely human.

His golden fist slammed into the champion of the Nine again and again, each blow cracking bone, tearing muscle, grinding what remained of the abomination's form into pulp. Bloodless rage had long replaced thought. His arm twisted, contorted, wrapped around the creature's limb so violently that bone turned to dust beneath his grip.

The room was a dungeon, deep beneath Ashhold—beneath the Aether Lantern, beneath his private sanctum. Only steel, shadow, and silence bore witness.

And Sylthara.

She knelt at his side, expression unreadable, hands glowing faint with shadow-threaded healing. Each time he shattered the creature, she wove it back together. Every tendon mended, every fracture sealed. Again and again.

"Speak!" Asher roared, voice raw with fury. His next haymaker landed like a cannon blast—jawbone shattering, fragments skidding across the stone. "What are your masters? Where do they come from? What do they want?" The last word cracked through the cell like a thunderclap.

The creature—chained, broken, half-reformed—smiled.

Then, slowly, deliberately, it spat black ichor into Asher's face.

It began to laugh.

Not in pain. Not in fear. But delight.

Then its head detonated in a sudden blast of gore, splattering the walls with wet ruin.

Asher staggered back. Shock flared in his eyes. His fist slammed into the stone wall beside him, sending fractures racing up its surface.

"Damn it!" he barked. "Not a single answer. Nothing."

He stood, chest heaving, face smeared in steaming black fluid. Rage trembled beneath his skin, worse than anything since Nyxhold. Since before Aeloria.

Sylthara rose behind him without a word. Her arms slid around his shoulders, slow and sure. Her long hair fell against his back, a curtain of silk and night. Her tail curled protectively around his leg as her shadows stroked across his frame like the breath of the void itself.

"You'll find them," she whispered, voice like velvet and starlight. "We will find them. And when we do, they'll beg for mercy. This changes nothing. We keep moving forward… for Kaelan. For all you've lost. For everyone still breathing your name."

Asher exhaled hard, rubbing the gore from his face. His ethereal golden and abyssal eye, dimming with exhaustion.

"I know you're right," he muttered. "But I'm sick of chasing ghosts. Always reacting. Always behind."

He looked down at the black smear drying across his palm.

"How did they even know we were in the Echoing Veins? How did they follow us?"

Silence answered at first.

Then, softly, Sylthara spoke behind him.
"My Master… we won't know how they followed us until we stand before the Nine themselves. But our path remains unchanged. The Skyward Throne still waits—and between us and it stand unnumbered Veinforged legions… and Nyxhold."

Asher nodded once. She was right.

They weren't going to interrogate their way to the truth. The Nine guarded their secrets too well, and their champions had proven themselves incapable—or unwilling—to break. He let the thought sit for a beat, then turned, dragging his cloak off the wall hook.

He slung it over the scorched shoulders of his armor, the weight familiar. Kaelan's obsidian-forged sword rested on his hip—refitted, sharpened, but unchanged. His eyes lingered on it.

The image of Kaelan's broken body flickered, unbidden.

He clenched his jaw and forced the memory back into the darkness where it belonged. Mourning could wait. The world couldn't.

Without a word, he started down the corridor. Sylthara fell into step beside him, shadows trailing behind her like a second cloak.

They passed beneath ancient arches and descending braziers until the dungeon gave way to the training hall—one of the deeper sanctums carved into the bones of Ashhold itself. The air here crackled faintly with residual Aether, etched runes lining the walls like silent sentinels.

Delaney was already there.

Focused. Balanced. Her stance precise as she moved through a brutal series of sword forms—shifting from thrust to guard with a speed that blurred her limbs. The sword in her hand glimmered with bound potential, each swing punctuated with quiet force.

She caught sight of him mid-turn.

Her face lit up.

"Daddy!" she shouted, then sprinted—crashing into him with surprising force. Her arms wrapped around his waist as tightly as she could manage, her head burying into his chestplate with a soft thud.

"Oof—careful," Asher chuckled, staggering back half a step. "You're getting strong, kiddo. You keep this up and you'll break the king one day."

Delaney flushed and grinned, pulling back just enough to punch him lightly in the stomach. "Whatever, Dad."

Asher smiled—but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

Delaney caught it immediately. Her tone sobered. "Did you get anything out of that… thing?"

The warmth in his expression faded.

"No," he said flatly. "Nothing. Whatever those things are—they're trained to die before they give us anything. Even under… pressure."

Delaney looked away for a moment. She didn't ask what "pressure" meant. She didn't need to. She already knew.

"I'm sorry," she said, quiet.

He rested a hand gently on her shoulder. "You don't need to be. Just keep training. Keep getting stronger. They're not done with us yet."

Delaney threw her fist in the air with a triumphant grin.
"Right! Those monsters won't know what hit them once they meet Delaney Veinheart on the battlefield!"

The confidence in her voice was absolute—youthful, proud, and utterly sincere.

Asher smiled, his hand ruffling her hair before resting again on her shoulder. "That's the spirit."

He turned slightly, glancing at Sylthara over his shoulder. "Why don't you help her train? I've got other business to handle."

Sylthara dipped her head, eyes gleaming. "It would be my pleasure, Master. Rest assured, I will drill the girl properly."

Delaney's eyes widened instantly. "Wait—no, not that kind of training—"

She didn't finish.

She turned on her heel and bolted down the hall, laughter echoing off the stone. "Only if you can catch me, Sylthie!"

Sylthara called after her, already giving chase. "Wait! Young lady—princesses do not behave this way! You must train!"

Her voice trailed behind her, half stern, half amused.

Asher chuckled under his breath, watching the two disappear down the corridor in a blur of shadows and giggles. The warmth lingered in his chest longer than he expected.

He still couldn't quite believe it. Delaney—his Delaney—was back. And not just back… thriving. Adapting. Carrying herself with the strength of someone born for this world.

His daughter.

Still whole. Still fighting.

He held onto that feeling as he turned from the training hall and began the long climb from the depths of Ashhold—up the carved stairways that wound from the underground sanctum toward the high halls of the palace.

There was still one more duty today.

The memorial awaited.

Asher crested the final step beneath the great archway that separated Ashhold's lower depths from the palace proper. The air shifted—cool stone giving way to polished marble and flickering braziers. Light poured in from high windows, illuminating the long stretch of the throne room ahead.

Near the dais, he spotted Vicky.

She stood with Elara and Jorven, her back straight, head held high—but Asher could see it. The tension in her shoulders. The faint tremble in her breath. Elara had one hand on her shoulder, whispering something quiet and comforting, while Jorven remained close by, watchful.

Asher approached without a word and gently pulled Vicky into an embrace. He kissed her cheek, warm and slow.
"Is everything alright, my queen?"

She smiled at the gesture, leaning into him for just a moment before returning the kiss.
"I'm fine," she said softly. "It's just… a lot. The memorial starts in a few hours. Refugees are still arriving. Everyone needs something."

Her voice was steady, but her eyes betrayed her—shadowed with doubt, her thoughts drifting somewhere she hadn't voiced. Asher caught it immediately.

He reached for her through their bond.

What is it, my love? You're holding something back.

Vicky didn't speak.

The others around them went silent—each clearly aware of what was happening, though none intruded.

Then, in the quiet of their minds, she answered.

I'm starting to worry. What if the Veinforged come again? What if… what if we can't hold them? What if Ashhold falls like Aetherhold did?

Asher's heart clenched. His mind snapped back to the flames. The rubble. The screams still buried in memory. Aetherhold's fall had been fast and brutal—and the Veinforged had taken more than lives that day. They had stolen certainty.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

He swallowed hard.

So much had already been lost.

And the monsters weren't done yet.

Asher pulled Vicky closer, holding her for a long, steady moment. Then he looked to Elara and Jorven, who still lingered nearby with uncertain expressions.

"Tell the others we'll convene tonight after the memorial," he said, his voice resolute. "It's time we accelerate our offensive—Nyxhold and the Skyward Throne won't wait."

Both nodded at once, Elara straightening with purpose.

"It will be done, my king. Now—" she offered a small smile, "—go steal some peace with your queen while you still can."

She turned briskly, Jorven falling in step behind her as they disappeared down the hall.

Vicky looked up at Asher, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "Alone at last, it seems... my king."

Asher chuckled. "Feels like we rarely get a moment, doesn't it?"

Vicky kissed him again, slower this time, and then leaned in with a grin.

"Then let's not waste it."
He didn't resist.
They walked in silence, the weight of the day pressing around them like ash—but between their fingers, something gentle sparked. Something alive.
In the quiet of the corridor, where echoes of the dead could not follow, they stole one moment for themselves.

Asher stepped into their chambers, the door closing softly behind him.

For a moment, they simply stood in silence—two rulers who had buried friends, who had screamed and wept and held a crumbling world aloft on tired shoulders. The scent of firewood lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of old armor and the ghost of battlefields.

Then Vicky crossed the space between them.

Her hands found the clasps of his armor not with hunger, but with reverence. One by one, she stripped him of war—chain, plate, cloth—until all that remained was him. Scarred, powerful, weary.

She traced each old wound with her fingers, her touch feather-light. "You're still here," she whispered, and kissed the center of his chest like a prayer.

Asher let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "And so are you."

She pressed against him then, warm and certain, and they kissed—slowly at first, then with rising urgency. Her dress slipped away like memory, forgotten at their feet. No armor. No ceremony. Just skin against skin.

He lifted her easily, carrying her to the bed as if she weighed nothing, and laid her down with a care that belied the fire in his blood. For a moment, he simply looked at her—her hair haloed on the pillow, her breath already quickening, eyes locked to his.

"You're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he said, voice low.

She smiled, her gaze soft. "Then come prove it."

He obliged—kissing down the curve of her neck, across her stomach, down to her thighs. Every movement was deliberate, as though he were reclaiming something sacred. When his mouth met her heat, she gasped, her hands gripping the sheets as pleasure stole her breath.

She writhed beneath him, not with desperation, but with release. A woman rediscovering safety. A queen anchoring herself in the one place untouched by death.

When he rose, she pulled him up with her—brought him close. Their foreheads touched.

"Don't hold back," she whispered.

He didn't.

He entered her slowly, deeply, a breath catching in both their throats. Their bodies fit together with a rhythm older than memory—an unspoken promise of survival. He moved with purpose, each thrust a refusal to surrender to despair.

The tempo built—need layered atop need. Vicky moaned his name, not as worship, but as anchor. And Asher, groaning against her throat, gave her everything: his grief, his strength, his vow to endure.

They climaxed together—raw, real, shaking.

Then silence.

Only the echo of hearts remembering how to beat.

Later, wrapped in tangled sheets, they lay in quiet peace.

It wasn't just sex. It was the act of not breaking. The ritual of staying human when the world demanded monsters.

When they rose, they did so wordlessly—but not without meaning.

Together, they dressed. Together, they walked out.

Not as survivors.

As sovereigns.

The bells of Ashhold began to toll.

The memorial was beginning.

And Kaelan—along with every soul lost to the Veinforged—deserved to be honored.

Asher stepped into the courtyard palace, the sound of a hundred thousand hearts beating in silence surrounding him.

Before him sprawled a sea of faces—refugees, warriors, artisans, children—every race and creed of Aetherhold now gathered beneath Ashhold's looming spires. They filled the walkways, the terraces, the rooftops. Some sat cross-legged in the garden shadows. Others stood shoulder to shoulder on balconies, or peered from afar through spyglasses and mirrored lenses. Every eye was fixed on him.

Nearly three hundred thousand souls had come to call Ashhold home.

And all of them waited now—hungry for something that would make sense of the blood and fire.

Asher moved forward with the unshakable grace of a predator and the weight of a reborn king. Vicky walked beside him. Behind them, Aetheros and Sylthara hovered inches above the stone. Their fingers were intertwined—light and shadow twined together. Their hair trailed in suspended strands behind them, drifting in slow arcs as though dancing to some unseen gravity.

Sylthara's tail waved lazily in the wind.

At the center of the courtyard stood the new monument—an obsidian slab nearly twelve feet tall, veined with raw aether crystal. It resembled a great tombstone, though none were buried beneath it. Only names—hundreds of them—etched into the stone by artisans who had worked through grief and sleepless nights to finish what Kaelan had started.

Asher reached the podium beside it.

His eyes scanned the front row—Elara, Dravyn, Jorven, Tormund, Varkos. His most trusted. His war-bound family. And though they stood with strength in their posture, he could see the hollowness behind their eyes.

Malisya. Garren. Kaelan.

Too many gone. Too many to name.

A pressure sat in his chest like stone. The pain had dulled with time—but the emptiness had not. That was the part no one warned you about. The guilt of continuing. The weight of breathing after those who died for you had stopped.

He cleared his throat, his hand brushing the edge of the podium. Aetheros and Sylthara stepped forward, their free hands lifting slightly as they poured their essence into him. It shimmered between them—power flowing down the bond like lifeblood returning to a heart.

Asher's mismatched eyes flared with radiant color. His skin lit with runes, ancient and living, pulsing with rhythm like breath. The Core within him stirred. The world itself recognized him—not just as its wielder, but as something more.

Its memory.

His voice carried like thunder wrapped in warmth.

"My people," he said. "A dark day, when assassins walk into our palace with blades aimed at the heart of everything we love. A dark day indeed, when monsters from beyond the Veil dare to enter our homes and strike at what is most precious."

He reached for Vicky, pulling her gently forward. His hand came to rest on the swell of her belly, his voice softening—but the air around them did not. It trembled. The Core awakened, warping reality around him ever so slightly. Not with fear. But with presence. Like a hearth fire—warm and absolute.

"This," he said, pointing to her womb, "is our future. My heirs will carry our legacy. They will become more than even I can imagine. And so the enemy moves to silence them before their first breath. To erase hope before it can take form."

He paused, scanning the masses—his people—his kingdom of survivors and warriors.

"What do we say to that?" he asked, voice ragged with truth. "To the ones who take, and devour, and leave ash in their wake?"

A single tear fell down his cheek.

He didn't wipe it away.

At first, only silence. Then a murmur. Then a voice from the crowd—an older woman, her voice cracked by grief and fire.

"We fight!"

Then another. "We strike first!"

"They took our son!" a couple screamed in unison. "He was nineteen, my king!"

More voices joined. A thousand. Then tens of thousands. A chorus of rage and resolve that thundered through the peaks like a war cry. Their grief took shape in sound. Their fury became unity.

Asher closed his eyes. And for a moment, he simply stood there—taking it in. Every word. Every scream. Every wound.

He accepted it all. Because he could. Because he had to.

Because that was what he was made for.

When the moment passed, he opened his eyes again and turned to Vicky. She gave him a solemn nod, and together they stepped down from the dais.

The crowd began to part—not out of command, but out of reverence—as the king and queen made their way toward the center of the courtyard, where the monument stood.

The aether crystals within the stone pulsed with soft light.

And there, in the hush that followed the roar, Asher placed his palm over Kaelan's name. Then Malisya's. Then Garren's.

The etchings were clean—deep grooves in obsidian, laced with aether crystal that shimmered faintly beneath his touch. Every other name recovered from the massacre was carved there too. Hundreds. Thousands. The list stretched on and on. Some known. Some forgotten but still honored. A ledger of the fallen.

Asher's throat tightened as fresh tears tracked silently down his face. Not just grief—resolve. The kind that hardens in fire.

He turned again to the crowd. And something changed.

The Core unlatched—just a fraction more—and the weight of it spilled into the air like the breath before a storm. The pressure deepened. A heartbeat against the skin. The kind of shift that made people stand taller without knowing why.

Rage, now. Not just grief.

Asher's domain expanded outward across the courtyard, sweeping low like a hunter's cloak. Sylthara flinched as she felt it—knew what he was doing. He was weaving layers of protective aether around the entire city sector. Dampening fields. Obfuscation glyphs. Shields against scrying.

This wasn't for the enemy.

This was for them.

A silent cry went through the bond.

Now.

Vicky responded instantly, feeding raw emotional power through the link—love, grief, defiance. Aetheros raised her hands and summoned ancient runes of silence that spiraled overhead like constellations collapsing in reverse. Sylthara joined her, pulse-to-pulse, funneling every ounce of excess power into the spellwork. The air above the courtyard shimmered—then stilled completely.

No one outside would hear what came next.

Asher stepped forward. His voice deepened—not in volume, but in gravity. It rang through flesh and bone.

"The time of waiting," he said slowly, "is over."

A hush fell again.

"To the east—one hundred twenty miles, beyond the edge of the Obsidian Ridge—stands the Skyward Throne. You've heard whispers. You've seen visions. But now… know this."

He turned his glowing gaze to the crowd—his people. His wounded, weary, unbroken people.

"Your king," he continued, "along with the greatest mortal army assembled in centuries… will march."

Murmurs.

"We will march to the gates of their fortress. The Veinforged—the butchers of Aetherhold, the devourers of worlds—we will break them where they spawn. Burn their flesh. Seal their portals shut."

His voice cracked with fury and purpose, but he did not falter.

"And then—when their halls run red and their world cries out—I will enter. I will tear open the path they used to reach us. I will take the fight into their realm. And with me, my champions. My hands. My sword."

He paused, letting the silence sit.

"We end this war… at its heart."

The crowd didn't cheer.

Not at first.

It was too much. Too heavy. Too real.

But then—just as the moment teetered—Elara stepped forward and raised her sword to the sky. And without a word, thousands followed. Metal clanged. Banners were lifted. Cries rose like thunder breaking open.

"For Aetherhold!" someone roared.

"For Ashhold!"

"For the fallen!"

And finally, all at once—like one voice rising from a single will—

"For the King!"

Asher stepped down from the podium.

The magic slowly unraveled around them—runic silence peeling back like a storm cloud rolling away. But the echo of that vow still pulsed in the stones.

He and Vicky walked hand-in-hand now, no longer flanked by goddess or guard. Behind them, Aetheros and Sylthara trailed close—heads bowed, energy spent.

They crossed the plaza together, moving toward the private alcove that had been prepared beside the great monument.

The final hour of the memorial had come—and with it, the celebration. Music rose soft and solemn through the palace square. Flowers were laid. Drinks shared. Laughter and grief intertwined beneath the starlit sky, just as Kaelan would have wanted it: not in silence, but in song. Yet as the crowd honored the fallen, Asher and his generals knew the truth—that the enemy did not rest. And while the people mourned, the king and queen turned toward war.