The King's Guard

Chapter 21

That same night, Kael dreamed again.

He stood alone in the centre of a vast circular chamber. The floor was obsidian-black, polished to such a shine it reflected him with eerie clarity: bare feet pressing against cold stone that offered no warmth, only weight.

There were no walls, only an endless expanse of darkness in every direction, stretching out like ink poured across the horizon. Above, the ceiling shimmered like an undulating plane of silver light, rippling like a lake under starlight.

The silence was absolute.

And then, as before, he was not alone.

From the far edge of the void, a shape emerged.

It was the same figure he’d seen at the gate: cloaked, towering, faceless. It moved with the slowness of tide or memory. Each step silent and inevitable.

Kael tried to move, to recoil, but the floor resisted.

The figure raised one long arm, pointing directly at him, and then it spoke.

His name.

“Kael…”

The voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once: soft, yes, but too full to be called a whisper.

He flinched. The air folded inward.

“Kael…”

The figure stepped closer. The fabric of its cloak didn’t rustle; it simply was. As it moved, the space around it cracked like time. Kael felt it ripple across his body, through his blood, and then the chamber broke.

Time twisted. Images came and went in flashes: a child’s cry, metal screaming, faces he didn’t recognise yet felt he knew. Choices. Regrets. Wounds.

He tried to scream but heard nothing but the sound of his own pulse fracturing.

And then he woke.

Jared wasn't in the room.

Kael sat upright in his bunk, breath caught between panic and reason, lungs struggling to catch up. Sweat slicked his brow, his neck, even the backs of his hands.

Pale moonlight filtered through the window, casting angled shadows across the dormitory floor. All was still seemingly.

Kael swung his legs over the side of the bed. Cold air licked at his ankles. He let the silence settle, forced his breathing to slow.

Reaching beneath his pillow, he drew out the battered leather journal he had begun keeping since the first Rift dream. What had started as single-line records had become something else: dense fragments of dream-logic, diagrams, half-formed thoughts.

He flipped to the next blank page and began writing, the pencil moving faster than his hand could feel.

> “Time folded again. Not flowing—breaking. A name spoken like a sentence. I think it was me. I’m not sure it was me. A mirror? A warning? It knew.”

He tapped the pencil against the margin, frowning.

> “Darius knows or suspects.”

A sound in the corridor outside. A soft creak of floorboards. Too slow and deliberate.

Kael froze, muscles tightening as if they remembered danger before his mind did.

He set the journal down, the page still wet with ink. He slid silently from the bed and padded barefoot across the cold floorboards. His hand hovered just above the hilt of the dagger at his belt.

Another faint sound. A footfall. Then stillness.

He eased the door open a sliver.

Darkness. Empty hallway.

But then, movement.

A shadow, just at the edge of visibility, passed across the far end. Too tall for any of the trainees. The gait was slow and unhurried. A robe, not a guard’s uniform.

Kael’s eyes narrowed.

The figure rounded the corner and vanished from sight.

He waited five seconds. No sound. No second shadow.

Then, silent as breath, he stepped into the corridor to follow.

The hallways of the East Wing were quieter than usual. Kael kept low, his steps light, hugging the walls as he moved. The dim sconces cast long shadows across the stone, the torchlight wavering just enough to blur edges and shapes. Whoever the figure was, they weren’t in a hurry, but they moved with a certain intent.

He passed the central stairwell, careful not to let his boots scuff against the granite, then ducked behind a squat column lined with worn inscriptions. Leaning just enough to peer over the edge, he caught a glimpse.

The cloaked figure had reached the lower corridor near the arcane archives: one of the restricted vaults buried beneath the Academy’s east wing. A place sealed by ancient runes and Academy law.

Kael narrowed his eyes.

The figure stood before the sigil-lock, arm raised, hand outstretched.

He waited for the wards to flare or reject them.

Instead, the runes shimmered: pale threads of blue light wove together, flickering faintly before parting like veils.

With a low, almost reluctant groan, the stone door creaked open.

The figure slipped through without glancing back.

Then silence.

Kael remained frozen behind the pillar, heart hammering against his ribs.

The archives were off-limits. Even ranked Masters required sanction and accompaniment. For someone to just… walk in?

Who was that?

And more importantly, what were they looking for?

The next morning, Kael found Reyna in the sparring hall, hammering her fists into a padded dummy with relentless focus. The overhead lamps hadn’t been fully lit yet; only half the braziers burned, casting her silhouette in bronze and gold.

Her stance was tight. Economical. No wasted motion. Each strike reverberated through the empty chamber, echoing against the practice mats and tiled walls.

“You’re up early,” she said, not looking back, her voice flat but alert.

Kael slowed his approach. “So are you.”

She pivoted for one final strike: a swift, upward jab that sent the dummy rattling on its stand—then stepped back, exhaling hard. Her braid had loosened at the edges, a few damp strands clinging to her brow. She reached for a towel on the bench and wiped her face.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she said after a pause. “You?”

Kael hesitated, then gave a nod. “Same.”

Reyna tossed the towel aside and picked up her water flask. “Nightmares again?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Same one. Or… parts of it. Some things keep changing.”

She didn’t speak straight away, just unscrewed the cap and drank.

“You should speak to Darius,” she said finally. “He knows the difference between a bad dream and a message.”

“I might,” Kael said, lowering his voice. “Reyna… did I ever mention anything to you about a cloaked figure Jared was speaking to? That night near the practice courts?”

Reyna paused mid-sip, then looked at him properly.

“No. You didn’t,” she said slowly. “You mean… that night after the tournament?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t see anyone,” she replied, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. “But there were whispers. A few trainees were talking. Some thought it was his uncle. Others… said it was someone from the outside. A contract mage. Or worse.”

Kael frowned, unconvinced. “Why would Jared need a hired blade? He’s already dangerous enough on his own.”

Reyna folded her arms and gave him a dry look. “You’re asking me? You saw him during the final. And what happened after.”

Kael looked away briefly. “He still hasn’t let go of that round I won, or the fact I made it back alive.”

“He won’t,” she said without pity. “Not while he’s being told you’re in the way.”

There was a long pause.

Kael turned his gaze back to her. “Told by who?”

Reyna didn’t answer. But the weight behind her silence said enough.

Later that day, Kael slipped away from the training fields when the drills changed shift. His route through the corridors was familiar, but his thoughts weren’t. He reached the end of the East Wing, where the arched hallway dipped toward the under-vaults.

The air was cooler here.

The sigil-lock stood embedded in the stone wall. Ancient. Silent. Its carvings traced faint circles across the stone, dull now in the absence of life.

Kael stood before it and waited.

Nothing happened.

He took a cautious step closer but didn’t raise a hand. He’d read what the wards could do, turn your skin to glass, your breath to ash, and that was for the kinder traps.

Still, the memory of the figure from the night before haunted him.

He examined the runes, letting his gaze settle on their sequence. There was a rhythm to them. A familiar pattern.

His eyes narrowed. He had seen it before. Not here, not in the Academy. In his dreams…or somewhere older.

The memory stirred: half-buried but insistent. A chamber. A voice speaking in broken Old Tongue.

The cloaked figure… and something behind them. Symbols, cut deep into obsidian stone. The same spiral. The same crescent. The same eye.

The exact pattern.

What was the connection?

That evening, Kael returned to his quarters and opened his journal. The candle beside him burned low, sputtering faintly. He dipped his pen, jaw clenched, and scribbled onto the page.

“Three symbols. Spiral. Crescent. Eye.”

He sketched them one by one, careful with the lines.

As he finished the last: the Eye sigil. A shiver passed through him. The flame of the candle danced wildly, then settled. Somewhere outside, a door creaked open.

Kael froze, pen still in hand. A whisper slithered in under his door, barely more than breath.

“Kael...”

His heart stopped.

He rose slowly, every movement deliberate, his fingers curling around the edge of the desk.

He wasn’t dreaming this time around.