Chapter Forty-Nine: The Serpent's Revelation
Tarn stood before the cloaked figure, the Serpent, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword. Every instinct screamed at him to strike, to end this madness before it could spread further, but something about the figure before him gave him pause. It wasn't just the stillness or the sense of something ancient that radiated from the figure—it was the sense that this moment had been waiting for him far longer than he had been hunting it.
The chamber was ancient, older than the Bastion itself. Its walls were etched with markings that shimmered faintly under the glow of countless candles. Symbols Tarn couldn't read pulsed softly with a crimson hue, as though the stone itself remembered every blood oath sworn within these depths. The air smelled of old wax and iron, of secrets too long kept.
The Serpent's voice, dark and ancient, slithered through the air like venom. "You think you understand power, Tarn, but you know nothing of it. Power isn't just held in thrones and armies. It's in bloodlines, in forgotten truths, and in the very bones of this land."
Tarn's pulse quickened, the words sinking deep into his chest. They felt like hooks, pulling at buried memories—of the Chainfather's war, of Caedren rising from the ashes of a broken world, of Ivan's whispers of ancient enemies that did not die, only changed their faces.
"What do you want from Caedren?" he demanded, stepping forward.
"Caedren is not the end, but merely a pawn in the greater game. He was never meant to sit on a throne. He was meant to be broken."
Tarn's knuckles whitened around the hilt of his sword. His breath came heavier, the chill of the chamber sinking into his bones. Still, he didn't strike. Not yet. The Serpent was playing a game with him—a game of words, of revelations—and to act too soon would be to lose.
He stepped forward again, his voice low and filled with menace. "I won't let you use him. I'll stop you here."
The Serpent tilted its head, as though amused by Tarn's conviction. "You can try. But you are already too late. We've already planted the seed, Tarn. And Caedren is the root."
Tarn's mind raced, the implications of the Serpent's words crashing through him like a wave. "What seed? What root?"
The Serpent smiled. A slow, knowing curve of the lips beneath the shadow of the hood. "The war you fear is already set in motion. The betrayals you fear are already in place. And the kingdom you protect is already dying from within."
Tarn took a shaky breath, the chamber seeming to constrict around him. The walls felt closer now, the candlelight dimmer. Something was pressing in from all sides—a presence, a weight.
"You speak in riddles, like all your kind," Tarn growled. "If you have truth, speak it plain."
The Serpent let out a low laugh, dry and hollow. "You want truth? Then listen well, Tarn Virell. The Ashen Oath was never the only force born from the ruins of the old world. Others rose as well—quietly, in shadow. We were there when the last kings fell. We were there when the first stones of Highrest were laid. We were there when Caedren first took up his sword."
Tarn's thoughts flashed to the memory-orbs in the Collector's chamber. Whispers of a name. A voice of someone he thought long dead.
"Ivan knew," the Serpent said, as though reading his mind. "He understood that history does not die—it only lies buried. And now, it wakes."
"And what is it that wakes?" Tarn asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
The Serpent's eyes gleamed brighter now, burning with something ancient and cruel. "The truth that Caedren carries in his blood. The legacy of fire and silence. He is not just a man, Tarn. He is a vessel. A weapon."
Tarn shook his head. "You're lying."
"Am I?" the Serpent hissed, voice coiling around him. "Then ask yourself why the name-eater came for him. Why the Chainfather's remnants fear him. Ask why even his allies cannot agree on what he truly is."
Tarn took a step back, doubt gnawing at the edges of his resolve.
The Serpent raised a gloved hand and gestured toward the wall behind them. As if summoned, a portion of the stone shifted, revealing a mural—a depiction older than the written word. It showed a figure crowned in flame, holding aloft a shattered sword, with shadows writhing around him.
Beneath the figure's feet, the world burned.
"This prophecy," the Serpent said, "is not about salvation. It is about what must be endured for the cycle to break. Caedren is not meant to save the world, Tarn. He is meant to end it."
Tarn stared at the mural, the breath caught in his lungs. The figure looked so much like him—like Caedren. It wasn't just the stance or the sword—it was the eyes. Eyes full of sorrow. Eyes that had seen too much.
"I don't believe you," Tarn said finally, though the words felt fragile.
"You will," the Serpent replied.
The chamber trembled faintly. The candles flickered.
"Go now," the Serpent said. "Take this knowledge with you. But know this—when the time comes, Caedren will have to choose what kind of king he truly is. And you, Tarn Virell, will have to choose whether to stand beside him… or to stop him."
Tarn's heart thundered. He turned, the weight of what he'd learned pressing hard against his chest. As he stepped into the corridor, the mural burned itself into his memory.
And behind him, in the candlelit dark, the Serpent began to whisper again—this time to someone else waiting in the shadows.
A second figure emerged, silent and cloaked.
Neris.
"It's begun," she said.
The Serpent nodded.
"He will burn, or he will become fire. Either way, the world will not survive unchanged."
And deep beneath the Bastion, the past uncoiled like a serpent in the dark, ready to strike.