Chapter 514: Across The Projection
(Apollo)
Malachar remained half a pace behind as they entered the throne room. The chamber had been cleared except for a handful of generals, two surviving archivists and the ancient projection apparatus waiting at the centre of the floor. Apollo had seen it only once before, buried beneath dust in the Citadel's deepest vaults, a relic from an age when rulers spoke across kingdoms without travelling between them. Now its crystal rings rotated slowly above a circular base of black metal, each carved symbol igniting and fading as the device tried repeatedly to complete a connection.
The throne waited behind it. Apollo did not look at the obsidian seat. He had no use for symbols of power while Adelaide was in pain.
A low, pulsing tone rolled through the chamber as another attempt reached across the distance. The outer crystal ring flared crimson, then gold, then failed with a burst of static that left the air smelling of burned stone.
"How long?" Apollo asked.
"Six hours," one of the archivists replied, his voice trembling. "Perhaps longer. The pattern repeats every few minutes."
"And the source?"
The archivist swallowed.
"We cannot identify the location."
Apollo turned his head slowly.
The male paled.
"But the signature," he added quickly, "is Emberborn."
Silence settled across the throne room. Another pulse of pain moved through the bond. This time Adelaide's fear came with it. Apollo bent forward as though struck, one hand bracing against the projection base while a growl tore its way from his throat. The device flickered beneath his palm, its ancient metal heating in response to the force leaking from him.
Malachar stepped closer. "My King."
Apollo lifted his head. The projection began to ring again. The sound was soft. Almost polite. A request waiting to be answered.
Every creature in the throne room looked towards him.
Apollo stared at the revolving crystal rings while blood dripped steadily from his ruined hand onto the ancient symbols below.
Somewhere beyond the bond, Adelaide hurt. Somewhere beyond the projection, someone knew why.
His mouth curved into a smile that contained nothing sane.
"Let it connect."
No one moved. The ancient projection continued its slow, rhythmic pulse, crimson light flowing through the carved channels beneath the crystal rings before fading once more into darkness. Another low chime echoed softly through the throne room, followed by another. Each one seemed impossibly patient, as though whatever waited on the other end already knew its call would eventually be answered.
Apollo stepped forward. The blood still dripping from his hand struck the polished obsidian beneath the device in slow, deliberate drops. One landed upon an ancient rune. The symbol flared briefly beneath the crimson before the projection shuddered violently.
The rings accelerated. Once. Twice. Then faster still.
The crystal suspended at their centre brightened until no one in the throne room could comfortably look directly at it. White light poured outward in silent waves, washing across the chamber before collapsing abruptly into a single towering pane of shimmering glass.
Static rippled slowly across the surface of the projection, distorting the light into shimmering ribbons that drifted across the throne room before dissolving into nothing. At first Apollo could make out little more than vague movement beyond the interference, pale shapes shifting behind the veil as though he were trying to look through deep water towards another world entirely.
Gradually, painstakingly, the distortion began to settle. The first thing to emerge was not a face. It was light. Warm sunlight spilled through towering crystal walls unlike anything Apollo had ever seen inside the Citadel, the mountain itself seeming almost translucent where enormous veins of amber and molten gold glowed beneath polished stone. The entire chamber appeared to breathe with quiet warmth rather than menace, its pale volcanic walls reflecting fractured rainbows that danced lazily across the floor as though the palace had been carved not to intimidate those who entered, but to welcome them.
It was beautiful.
His chest tightened. Was this where she had gone? Was this where she had believed she belonged?
Only then did his eyes travel deeper into the chamber. Past the crystal pillars. Past the broad sweep of polished stone. Past the ancient throne carved directly into the living mountain itself. And there... Seated comfortably upon it as though he had never belonged anywhere else... Was Arkael.
He looked utterly at home. One arm rested comfortably upon the broad armrest carved from the mountain itself while the other lay relaxed across his knee. He wore no armour. No crown. Only dark robes trimmed in molten gold, the picture of a king receiving honoured guests rather than addressing an enemy.
To his right stood Dravenor. Apollo recognised him immediately. The resemblance to Cael was impossible to ignore now that he looked for it. The same height. The same broad shoulders. The same ember-coloured eyes.
Only where Cael's had always carried restraint... Dravenor's glittered with amusement.
The older male smiled slowly. Like he already knew how this conversation would end.
Arkael inclined his head ever so slightly.
"Good." His voice emerged with startling clarity. "You've recovered."
Silence swallowed the throne room. Apollo did not answer. The words struck him harder than they should have.
You've recovered.
Not...
I see you're alive.
Not...
The poison failed.
Recovered. As though Arkael had known exactly what had been happening inside the Citadel these past days. As though he had been waiting. Waiting until Apollo could feel every moment of what came next.
Apollo's jaw tightened.
"You knew."
Arkael smiled. "I suspected."
"Liar."
"Very well." The smile broadened almost imperceptibly. "I knew."