The sky over Virelion was the color of old parchment—cloudless, brittle, and still.
In the high halls of the Celestine Concordium, the great bells tolled—not for celebration, nor war, but for council. A sound not heard since the Days of Wane, when the First Accord fractured and the Rift was buried beneath silence and pact.
Now, the bells sang again.
And every kingdom—every throne, temple, and guild hall—heard their call.
The world was waking up.
And it was afraid.
High Archon Maltrius leaned heavily on his rune-etched staff, his robes trailing behind him like melting snow. His face was drawn, hawk-like, eyes set deep in a face carved by time and secrets. He stood upon the uppermost tier of the Concordium's dais, gazing down at the gathering beneath the dome of stained celestial glass.
Representatives from across the known realms filled the chamber.
The Obsidian Matriarch of Eryndhel, clad in robes woven from nocturned silk, her six attendants whispering in tongues no man dared learn.
Grand Mechanist Ferrol of the Varnic Guild, gears embedded in his skull whirring faintly as he recorded every word with living ink.
Marshal-Tyrant Velosse of the Iron Reaches, whose armor was forged from dragonbone and bound in blood-oaths.
And more—magi, warlords, seers, scholars. All had come.
All had felt it.
The shift.
Maltrius raised his staff, and the hall fell silent.
("The Spiral has broken,") he said.
And a ripple passed through the chamber like the shiver of a hunted beast.
Beneath the Concordium, in the shadows of the tower's root, a scrying pool stirred with images of Haraza Genso—walking through the ruins, wielding power not seen since the age of the first Flamebearers. The Origin Glyph pulsed within him like a second sun.
("He is untrained,") one delegate muttered. ("A wild god in mortal flesh.")
("Then he must be slain,") said another. ("Before the Rift completes its awakening.")
Maltrius silenced them with a glare.
("You are fools,") he spat. ("Haraza Genso is no mere vessel. He is the fulcrum. If he dies, the balance breaks—and the Rift swallows everything.")
There was silence, then.
Then the Matriarch of Eryndhel leaned forward, her voice like wind brushing bone.
("Then we must find him,") she said. ("And we must bind him.")
Far to the south, in the temple-shrouded highlands of Orel Vei, another council was forming—but not of kings.
The Oracle Circle, long dormant, had stirred from slumber. Their leaders gathered around the Skyburn Pyre, where the flames burned not with heat, but with truth.
Elaris, Seer of the Ninth Light, gazed into the fire and whispered:
("He walks between moments.")
The others watched as the flames twisted and took form—scenes of Haraza, of the Rift's eye opening, of twelve thrones scattered across sea and sand.
("The Glyph chose him,") said another. ("But the Choosing is not the End.")
Elaris turned, her eyes rimmed with golden tears.
("It is the Beginning.")
And even deeper still—in realms untouched by sun or moon—old things stirred.
In the catacombs beneath the shattered continent of Kael'Vratha, a race once thought extinct breathed its first breath in centuries. Serpentine and ethereal, the Namarun slithered from their stasis vaults. Their eyes saw through stone and lies.
("The Rift breathes,") their speaker hissed.
("The Thorn rises.")
And from the center of the deepest chasm, they began their long ascent.
Meanwhile, Haraza stood atop a cliff overlooking the Bay of Shards. The air here tasted of salt, ash, and old magic. Lirien sat nearby, sharpening her blades with a silence that carried questions she hadn't yet spoken aloud.
("How far do we go?") she asked finally.
Haraza didn't answer immediately.
Below them, the sea sparkled with unnatural light. Somewhere beneath those waters, a sunken temple was said to hold the Verdant Crown—a relic of the Accord's first Empress. It was a symbol, a key, and possibly... a warning.
("We gather the others,") Haraza said at last. ("The ones who bear the Marks.")
("You mean the other Glyph-bearers.")
("Yes.")
Lirien hesitated. ("If they exist.")
Haraza turned. His eyes were brighter now—not glowing, but lit from within.
("They exist. I can feel them. Not just in the Rift, but… across the world.")
Lirien sheathed her blades. ("Then we hunt.")
At the edge of the continent, in the city of Tyraxis where stars were said to fall like rain, a young alchemist named Ryve awoke screaming.
Her arms were marked with curling runes that had not been there the night before.
And in her dreams, a voice whispered:
("The First Glyph has chosen. The Second must awaken.")
("The Twelve will stand, or the world will burn.")