The Ashwinder pulsed with life, the scent of spiced ale and charred meat thick in the air. Lanternlight flickered in its iron sconces, casting restless shadows along the tavern’s wooden walls, the glow shifting with the steady rise and fall of voices. The place was alive in a way only Ashhold could be—fierce and unrelenting, unbothered by the weight of the world outside its doors.

  But at the bar, Vicky sat silent.

  Her fingers traced absent patterns along the rim of her cup, her thoughts drifting beyond the tavern, beyond Ashhold itself—past the heat-shimmered dunes, past the great iron-clad gates of Nyxhold where the Veinforged lurked to the east.

  Beside her, Brynn leaned forward, engaged in an animated exchange with Elara, whose face was already flushed from drink. With a satisfied sigh, Elara lifted her tankard and took a slow, savoring draught.

  “Duskshadian Firewhiskey always hits the spot,” she declared, setting her cup down with a decisive thunk. “But this new Ashhold brew—by the gods—” she exhaled, shaking her head in approval before turning her sharp gaze toward Vicky. A knowing grin tugged at her lips. “You’re quiet tonight, my queen.”

  Vicky scoffed, though something uneasy flickered beneath the sound. “You get far too chatty when you drink, Elara.” She lifted her own cup, rolling its contents idly before taking a sip. “And for the record—no, the Duskshadian stuff was far better.”

  Elara barked out a laugh. “Sometimes I think you disagree with me just for sport.”

  Vicky ignored her, setting her drink aside with a sigh. “I’m glad he’s alive,” she admitted at last, her fingers drumming lightly against the worn wood of the bar. “But the bonds that link us… they feel different now. Distant. Something has shifted, and I can’t shake the feeling that Asher has done something—something reckless, and without consulting us first.”

  She tilted her head back, staring at the low-beamed ceiling. “And then there’s Sylthara. We still don’t know her motives. All we do know is that she’s with Asher, somewhere beyond our reach. And that, more than anything, is what unsettles me.”

  Brynn, who had been listening in measured silence, finally spoke.

  “With Asher, sometimes you just have to roll with the punches,” she said, taking a thoughtful sip of her drink. “There’s no telling what he’s gotten himself into, but—” she shrugged, her movement easy, assured, “somehow, it always works out.”

  Vicky let out a low, amused laugh, pressing her forehead into her palm. “I should be the one saying that to you. Stop being so damn calm all the time.”

  Then, she gave Brynn a pointed look. “Shouldn’t you be heading back to Aetherhold soon?”

  Brynn sighed, swirling the dregs of her drink. “Soon,” she conceded. “Jorven and Dravyn returned ahead of me to get my affairs in order. The College’s semiannual fundraiser is in two days, and I need to be there in person.”

  She rolled her shoulders, a flicker of irritation crossing her face. “Naturally, I’ll be pushing for our resources to go into the golems and teleportation ports across the major holds. But gods, I wish I could see Asher before I’m dragged back into politics.”

  A wistful smirk tugged at her lips. “It’s been too long since I had a good battle.”

  Vicky swatted Brynn’s back with playful exasperation. “That’s my job,” she declared, pointing to herself with mock pride. “Warrior queen, remember?”

  Though her tone was light, there was something else beneath it—something weighty, something wary.

  The tavern hummed around them, but Vicky’s mind remained elsewhere—on Asher, on the uncertain path ahead, on the unseen forces unraveling just beyond their reach.

  Brynn’s voice pulled Vicky from her thoughts.

  “It’s not just politics pulling me back to Aetherhold and the College,” she admitted, setting her cup aside. “We’re seeing an increase in Veinforged activity—pouring south from Cael’tharyn, just beyond the Frostborn stronghold you visited months ago.”

  Vicky’s fingers tightened around her cup at the mention of the name. “The Land of Shattered Spires… that was ground zero for the Sundering, wasn’t it?” Her voice was quieter now, weighted. “The place where Vorlath made his bargain with the Corruption—where he sought to kill Aetheros and twist the Aether itself.”

  Brynn nodded, her expression unreadable in the fire’s glow. “That’s the story as far as we know it. We put the Veinforged on their back foot with that victory—Asher escaped capture, and Sylthara’s defection shifted the tide—but something stirs beneath the surface. We’ve forced the Corruption into a corner, and I doubt it’s felt such pressure in a long time.”

  She exhaled slowly, the weight of unspoken fears settling between them. “I have a feeling things are about to become... complicated.”

  Vicky gave a curt nod, her fingers tapping the worn wooden table. “Not to mention... I can feel it. Asher has done something—changed something fundamental. The bonds between us were already blurred, but now? Now they’re shifting, reshaping under some immense force.”

  She paused, brow furrowing. “And there’s something else. A new connection... weaving itself into our bond.”

  Brynn’s expression remained unreadable, her voice devoid of emotion. “I feel it too... I’m assuming it’s Sylthara.”

  Vicky’s anger flared, hot and immediate. “So he would bind that traitor to what was meant to be a sacred bond between the King and his Queens?” She scoffed, shaking her head. “What is he thinking?”

  Brynn offered a weary, lopsided smile as she took a slow sip of her brew. “Whatever he’s done—whatever he’s planning—I have to believe it will work out in the end.”

  She set the cup down, fingers tracing the rim as her gaze turned distant. “Truthfully... I’m still in awe of how far we’ve come. Aetherhold grows stronger every day, and Ashhold won’t be far behind. Asher will return, I know it. And if Sylthara does come with him... perhaps she’ll bring something more than just her allegiance.”

  Her lips quirked in a wry smile. “Maybe even a new power.”

  Vicky let out a laugh, the tension between them easing. “You’re just thinking about getting him back in bed again.”

  Brynn smacked Vicky lightly on the shoulder, feigning offense. “Well, he is our king, and I have shared his bed once... I do feel rather unappreciated right now.”

  Before Vicky could offer a retort, the door swung open, and Kaelen strode in.

  His usual armor was absent. Instead, he wore a simple yet well-tailored white tunic, its cuffs trimmed with fine embroidery. His long leather pants fit snugly, tucked into laced-up black boots that bore the scuffs of a warrior reluctant to relinquish practicality, even in comfort.

  “My Queens!” he exclaimed, his voice carrying the exuberance of a man who had already indulged in more than a few drinks. “How delightful to see you enjoying the luxuries of leisure on such a fine day!”

  Brynn and Vicky exchanged amused glances before greeting him warmly. The scent of spiced mead clung to him, and there was a telltale looseness to his movements, though his steps remained steady.

  Elara, who had been little more than a silent specter at Vicky’s back, finally spoke, her voice smooth but edged with curiosity. “What brings you here, Kaelen?”

  Kaelen set his cup down with a satisfied sigh, rolling his shoulders as the warmth of the drink settled in. His sharp eyes flicked between his companions, and a slow grin curled across his lips.

  “Well then,” he said, voice laced with amusement. “We’ve done enough brooding for one night. What say we put a little wager on our fortunes?”

  Vicky raised a brow, smirking. “Oh? And what sort of wager do you have in mind?”

  Kaelen leaned forward, tapping two fingers against the table. “Odds and evens. Simple enough, yet always revealing.”

  Elara chuckled, shaking her head. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve already thought of a way to cheat?”

  Brynn scoffed, swirling the last remnants of her drink. “If he cheats, we’ll just make him regret it.”

  Kaelen pressed a hand against his chest in mock offense. “Ladies, you wound me! I am a man of honor.” He reached into his belt pouch and withdrew a handful of small, polished stones, each marked with a carved rune. “We roll. Odd or even—winner takes the pot.”

  Elara leaned in, her eyes glinting with interest. “And what, exactly, is the pot?”

  Kaelen smirked. “Loser buys the next round. And, if we’re feeling particularly bold, they must answer a question with absolute honesty.”

  Vicky chuckled, stretching her fingers before grabbing a few stones. “Oh, I like this game already.”

  They played for a time, the tension of the evening easing with every roll of the stones. Laughter came easier, and even Brynn, normally the most composed of the group, found herself swept up in the revelry. The rounds moved quickly, victories and losses traded in good spirits.

  Kaelen, to his visible frustration, lost more often than he won, while Elara proved particularly adept at guessing the rolls.

  After a particularly brutal loss, Kaelen groaned, raking a hand through his hair. “By the gods, I swear you’re cursed, Elara.”

  Elara grinned, collecting her winnings. “Just lucky, I suppose.”

  Brynn stretched, setting her cup aside. “As much as I’d love to keep bleeding Kaelen dry, I need to start packing. Aetherhold won’t wait for me, and I have a teleportation gate to catch.”

  Kaelen exhaled dramatically. “Duty calls.”

  Vicky smirked knowingly. “Make sure you pack something for the fundraiser. You know, in case you actually have to look the part of a noble lady.”

  Brynn rolled her eyes. “I hate that you’re right.”

  The conversation lulled, and for a brief moment, the flickering firelight and lingering warmth of companionship wrapped around them like an old, well-worn cloak.

  But beyond the walls of The Ashwinder, the world moved on.

  Somewhere, beyond the veil of their reach, Asher stood on the precipice of something unknown.

  The fire crackled weakly before him, its glow barely holding back the oppressive darkness beyond. Shadows stretched unnaturally at the edges of their makeshift camp, shifting as if drawn toward Asher’s presence. He sat with his back against the rough stone of an outcropping, his limbs heavy, his body feverish.

  His skin burned with unnatural heat, yet the night air still bit through the sweat clinging to his body. Hunger gnawed at his insides, but the thought of food twisted his stomach.

  The core pulsed inside him.

  Not a steady rhythm, not like Aether’s gentle hum, but something erratic and demanding—an unrelenting presence clawing at the edges of his mind. It didn’t simply resist Aether. It rejected it outright. The two forces were anathema to one another, like the repelling poles of a magnet, locked in ceaseless opposition.

  But unlike the festering corruption of the Veinforged, the void did not rot or wither.

  It was clean. Absolute. A force of dominion, of hunger, of will.

  And it wanted control.

  Across the camp, Sylthara worked in silence. Her violet eyes flickered like twin galaxies, swirling with the endless vastness of the void. Her wings remained partially unfurled, absorbing the dim firelight, while her long tail, sleek and dark, curled idly near her feet. The arrowhead tip flicked in thought as she carved methodically into the fresh kill before her, her blade slicing through sinew with effortless precision.

  She didn’t look up as she spoke.

  “You should eat.” Her voice was smooth, yet carried an echo of something ancient.

  Asher exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers to his temples as another wave of nausea twisted through him. “I can’t.” His voice was hoarse, raw with exhaustion. “The moment I try, the core—it lashes out. It burns through me like I don’t need anything else.”

  Sylthara finally turned toward him, her gaze narrowing as she studied him. The swirling infinity in her violet-blue eyes shifted, like an endless sky turning in upon itself. She wiped her blade clean, rising with slow, deliberate grace, her long hair spilling over her shoulders in streaks of ink and amethyst.

  “The core is fighting you,” she stated. Not a question. A fact.

  Asher barked out a short, humorless laugh, running a hand down his sweat-slicked face. “It’s not fighting me. It’s consuming me.” He clenched his fists, feeling the tremors beneath his skin. “The void doesn’t just exist alongside Aether. It wants to rule it. To make everything within its reach bend—including me.”

  Sylthara stepped closer, her presence folding over him like an eclipse. “You think you can keep it caged?” Her wings flared slightly, the shadows stretching in response. “The void was never meant to be tamed, Asher.”

  His eyes snapped up to meet hers, frustration cutting through the haze of exhaustion. “I won’t let it control me.”

  Sylthara tilted her head, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she crouched before him, lowering herself until she was at eye level. Her tail curled lazily behind her, her gaze piercing through the fevered haze clouding his mind.

  “Then you need to understand it,” she murmured, reaching out with a single, clawed fingertip and pressing it lightly against his temple. “Because if you don’t… it will understand you first.”

  Asher swallowed, his breath unsteady, the weight of exhaustion pressing against him like an unseen hand. His gaze flickered toward the sealed chest beside him—the books, the scrolls, the knowledge buried alongside the core.

  Somewhere within those pages lay the answers he needed.

  He just had to find them before the void found him.

  A soft rustle of movement drew Asher’s attention. Beyond the reach of the fire’s dim glow, Lunira sat cross-legged on a flat stone, her small frame swallowed by the oversized cloak draped around her shoulders. She had been silent for much of the evening, a quiet observer, yet now she shifted, gathering the courage to speak.

  "Sir… Asher," she said hesitantly, her voice small but determined. "I was thinkin’… when we go back—wherever you go—can I come with you?"

  Asher turned his gaze toward her, studying the child carefully.

  Lunira was a girl of few words, her past a shroud of mystery even to herself. He and Sylthara knew little about her beyond the simple truth that she had been his—Vorlath’s. A captive, a tool, another life claimed by the Dark Lord’s dominion.

  And yet, here she was. Unshackled. With nothing but the road ahead.

  His voice softened, free of malice or dismissal. "My life is full of danger, Lunira. But if you wish, I can find you a home in Aetherhold. A place where you’ll be safe."

  He paused, watching her carefully. "Do you remember your parents? Any family?"

  Lunira was silent for a long moment, her violet-tinged eyes reflecting the low firelight. Then, she shook her head.

  "I don’t remember anything before… Master Vorlath."

  The name alone sent a dark ripple through the air, but Asher wasted no time. He pulled the girl into a firm, protective embrace, his arms wrapping around her as if to shield her from the echoes of a past she could not recall.

  "Well," he murmured, his voice a quiet promise, "I will keep you safe. You’ll stay at the palace with me. I’ll make sure you have a beautiful room filled with soft blankets and more toys than you’ll know what to do with."

  But Lunira pulled back sharply, shaking her head with fierce determination.

  "No!" she blurted, her expression set with unshakable resolve. "I don’t want toys! I want to train. I want to fight. I want to fight with you, Mr. Asher!"

  Asher blinked in surprise, then let out a deep, rolling laugh that echoed through the quiet night.

  "Fine, fine, little one," he conceded, ruffling her wild hair. "Then you shall be my most treasured knight."

  A grin tugged at his lips as he added, "Once you get a bit older."

  Lunira pouted, crossing her arms with mock indignation, but the gleam in her eyes betrayed her excitement.

  Across the fire, Sylthara, who had been listening in silence, finally spoke.

  Her voice carried the weight of someone who had long since lost the ability to dream of childhood.

  "A knight, is it?" she mused, her violet eyes shifting between Asher and the girl. "You should know, Lunira, that knights bleed for their oaths. They do not play at battle."

  "I know," Lunira said without hesitation, her small hands balling into fists. "I’m not afraid."

  Sylthara studied her for a long moment, the swirling infinity in her violet-blue eyes unreadable. Then, with a flick of her tail and a knowing smirk, she turned back to the fire.

  "Well then. Best get some rest, little knight."

  Lunira straightened, her chin lifting as if she had already donned the armor she dreamed of.

  Asher chuckled softly, shaking his head.

  His world had shifted in ways he could barely comprehend, but for now—for this single, fleeting moment—he let the warmth of their small camp push back against the void gnawing at the edges of his mind.

  The girl scurried off, curling up atop a bed conjured from the very void itself—an impossibly soft nest of shifting darkness, woven from the same power that now pulsed through Asher and the land.

  The void embraced her like a living thing, adjusting to her movements, settling around her small frame as if to ward off the nightmares she would never speak of.

  Within minutes, the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing filled the silence, her exhaustion claiming her with ease.

  Asher exhaled, rubbing his temples as another pulse of foreign energy surged through his veins. It was raw, untamed—like a storm barely held at bay. He could feel it straining against the Aether within him, two forces locked in ceaseless opposition, like warring tides colliding in his blood.

  Across the fire, Sylthara watched him carefully, her wings half-spread as though sensing the tension thrumming through him.

  “You have nothing to fear, Asher,” she murmured suddenly, her voice smooth as velvet, carrying the weight of someone who had long since accepted what she was. “This is merely another power to master. And in the long run, I believe it will enhance your strength more than you realize.”

  Asher scoffed, his gaze dark and weary. “Elara warned me that Void Aether is unpredictable—dangerous. I don’t even know what this pure void magic is capable of. It doesn’t follow the same rules as Aether. It repels it, fights against it. It’s unnatural.”

  He hesitated, then met Sylthara’s gaze.

  “It’s the same power you wield, isn’t it?”

  Sylthara tilted her head, the violet streaks in her ink-black hair catching the firelight. Her wings flexed slightly, a ripple of shadow and ethereal motion.

  “In a sense, yes,” she admitted, “but what you’ve bound yourself to... it predates even my magic. The void you awakened here, the magic that now lingers in this land—it is older than me, older than the Aether Veins themselves.”

  Asher frowned. “So you’re saying I’ve tied myself to something ancient, something we don’t even understand?”

  A slow, wry smile curved Sylthara’s lips. “You finally understand.”

  She motioned toward the sealed chest resting just beyond the fire’s glow. Its dark metal gleamed faintly, still thrumming with residual power from when the core had bound itself to him. The symbols carved into its surface pulsed like something alive, the language unfamiliar, the intent unreadable.

  “You found that chest beneath the core,” she continued, her voice quieter now, reverent. “The moment the core was unsealed, the bindings on it shattered. Whatever was meant to be locked away with it—those books, those scrolls—wasn’t just knowledge.”

  Her gaze flickered toward the iron-bound tomes, their leather covers worn with age, their pages resisting even the simple act of being read.

  “It was a warning. Or perhaps a guide. And we need to go through every last word.”

  Asher’s fingers flexed involuntarily at the memory of opening the chest. The weight of it, the way the symbols along its surface had shifted under his touch, as though reawakening. The texts inside had felt alive, their words twisting and reforming when he tried to read them, as if resisting their own unveiling.

  Sylthara continued, her voice unwavering. “Whatever power was sealed within that core, it’s not something we command. Not yet. And its growth is outside of our control—for now. But what we can control is how we prepare for what’s coming.”

  She tapped a clawed finger against the chest, her violet eyes glinting with sharp intent.

  “We need to learn what this core was. Why it was sealed. And most importantly—” she met his gaze, her voice dropping to a near whisper, “what it is doing to you.”

  Asher let his gaze linger on the chest, his thoughts a storm of questions he wasn’t sure he wanted answered.

  But they needed those answers.

  And soon.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  The fire burned low, casting restless shadows along the rocky walls of their camp. The embers pulsed dimly, their warmth failing to banish the cold weight pressing against Asher’s chest.

  Across from him, Sylthara sat cross-legged, her wings half-folded around her like a cloak of living shadow. The unreadable text lay between them, scattered tomes and brittle parchment spread across the ground.

  But the more they uncovered, the less Asher understood.

  Scrolls written in a language neither of them fully recognized. Schematics so intricate they seemed to weave a language of their own. Fragments of thesis papers, some too faded to decipher, others written in what could only be described as two voices at once—one in ancient Sylvari runes, the other in symbols that predated even that.

  The words shimmered, unstable, as if resisting their own meaning.

  And then there were the contradictions.

  "A key. A weapon. A guide. A lexicon. A path to understanding."

  Each document described the core differently, as if it refused to be named, as if it became whatever the writer needed it to be.

  Some accounts spoke of it as a crystalline structure, others as an endless sphere of blackened glass. One passage—etched into a rusted metal tablet—claimed it was a living entity, bound not to flesh, but to will itself.

  Asher ran a hand through his damp hair, the fever still clinging to him. The more he read, the more aware he became of the thing inside him—the raw pulse of Void Aether still fighting against his body, still unraveling him thread by thread.

  “This makes no sense,” he muttered, shaking his head as he scanned a parchment filled with curling runes. “It’s described as too many things. How can something be a key, a weapon, and a guide all at once?”

  Sylthara didn’t answer immediately. She was studying a delicate sheet of vellum, its edges burnt, as if it had barely survived whatever catastrophe had hidden these records away.

  Her violet-blue eyes flickered in the dim light as she traced the faded markings.

  “It’s not a contradiction,” she finally murmured. “It means it isn’t bound by form. It becomes what it is needed to be.”

  Asher exhaled slowly, the weight of her words sinking into him like a stone in deep water.

  They worked in silence, turning pages, unrolling brittle scrolls, deciphering what they could, discarding what they couldn’t.

  Some of the texts spoke in riddles, others in the meticulous precision of scholars trying to unravel the unknown.

  But one common thread emerged from the fractured knowledge, woven into the disjointed notes and incomplete translations.

  Pure Void Aether.

  Unlike the corruption that festered in Veinforged magic, unlike the structured flow of Aether that ran through the veins of Aeloria, this was something else entirely.

  It was not a gift.

  It was not woven into the world’s foundation like Aether had been.

  It had been found.

  Reached for.

  Touched.

  Not given.

  Sylthara frowned, pushing a thick tome toward Asher, tapping a clawed finger against a passage.

  “Look at this,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

  The script was barely legible, the ink faded, but as Asher read aloud the words that remained, a chill settled in his bones.

  "…traveled beyond the veil… searched the stars and found the space between them…"

  "…no gods in the beginning… only silence…"

  "…found magic where there was none…"

  "…and the void whispered back."

  Asher’s breath caught in his throat.

  He read the words again.

  No gods in the beginning.

  The idea scraped against everything he had ever known.

  Aeloria was a world defined by its divine forces, by the power of Aether, by the gods that had shaped the land and its people.

  But this text—this half-deciphered fragment of ancient thought—suggested something else.

  That there had been a time when there was nothing.

  No gods.

  No Aether.

  No magic.

  And that someone had found it.

  Sylthara closed the book, her fingers lingering on the cover. Her expression was unreadable, but Asher could feel the weight of her thoughts pressing against her.

  They sat in silence for a long time, the embers crackling softly, the cold night pressing in.

  When Sylthara finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

  “We need to keep reading.”

  Scrolls lay unfurled across the ground, ancient pages covered in fragmented knowledge, in languages lost to time. The weight of revelation pressed heavy against Asher’s chest, suffocating in its quiet enormity.

  Aetheros. Sylthara. Vorlath.

  They had not been gods.

  They had not been celestial beings, nor divine arbiters of magic.

  They had been Sylvari.

  Mortal.

  Just like him.

  And they had been the ones who had invited the Corruption back into this world—after a long-shattered empire, whose bones they now walked upon, had once given everything to seal it away.

  Asher ran a hand over his face, his fingers digging into his temples.

  His fever had not abated, nor had the ceaseless, warring energies inside him lessened.

  If anything, the more he learned, the more frayed he felt, as though his very existence were unraveling thread by thread.

  His voice was quiet, but edged with something raw.

  “So everything we’ve been doing—the purified Aether Veins, all our work pushing back the Corruption—it doesn’t matter in the end, does it?” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “If the Corruption just feeds on Aether, then it’s all pointless. We’re just delaying the inevitable. It’ll spread anyway. It always does.”

  Sylthara watched him carefully, her expression unreadable, her long, ink-dark hair spilling over her shoulders. Shadows flickered across her pale skin as the firelight bent around her, caught in the endless depth of her wings.

  She sighed, the motion slow and measured, as though she had been expecting this reaction.

  “You’re not wrong,” she admitted, her voice smooth but quiet. “The Corruption will consume whatever Aether it touches. That’s the cycle. That’s what it does.”

  Asher clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists. “Then why the hell are we still playing this game? Why are we fighting if everything we build is just going to be eaten away in the end?”

  “Because,” Sylthara said, shifting her weight slightly, “we found something different.”

  Asher lifted his gaze, searching her face for answers. “What do you mean?”

  She tapped a clawed finger against the open tome between them. Its pages were filled with meticulous, spidery script, detailing the discovery of something beyond the known Veins—something before the world had Aether at all.

  “When we first scouted the Pure Aether Veins, the ones you and your people have been extending, we knew something was off,” she explained. “They weren’t like the veins that came after the Sundering. The Corruption could still touch them, but…” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “It couldn’t consume them as easily.”

  Asher frowned. “Why?”

  Sylthara exhaled slowly, her fingers trailing over the old parchment. “Because this Aether doesn’t act the way Aether has since the Sundering. It doesn’t just bind to the world—it repels the Corruption’s hunger. Not perfectly. Not completely. But it fights back in a way that normal Aether never has.”

  His heart pounded. “So it can be corrupted, but not as easily?”

  “Exactly,” Sylthara murmured. “It resists. It stalls the process. And that alone makes it unlike anything we’ve ever seen.”

  Asher sat back, his mind spinning.

  All this time, he had thought they were simply cleansing the land, returning it to something before the Corruption had tainted it.

  But that wasn’t it at all.

  They weren’t just reclaiming Aether.

  They were spreading something new.

  Something different.

  Something that might be the only chance to break the cycle.

  He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “Why didn’t Aetheros tell me any of this?” His voice was quieter now, but there was an edge of resentment beneath it. “She let me believe she was a god. That she was above all of this. That she created the world.”

  Sylthara let out a soft, dry laugh, shaking her head. “Of course she did.”

  Asher shot her a look. “You’re not going to defend her?”

  Sylthara smirked, but there was no amusement in her eyes. “What would you rather she say? ‘Oh, Asher, by the way, I’m not actually a goddess, just a Sylvari with a cheat code, and I helped invite the Corruption into this world?’” She tilted her head. “Would that have changed anything? Or would it have only made you doubt everything sooner?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Because he did doubt everything now.

  Sylthara’s voice softened, almost thoughtful. “She let you believe something cleaner because the truth is ugly. And because she needs you to believe in her. The moment you stop seeing her as a goddess, you start questioning her choices. And the moment you question her choices…” She trailed off, her expression unreadable. “Well. You’re already asking the right questions now, aren’t you?”

  Asher stared at the embers, his thoughts circling like vultures over something freshly slain.

  Everything he thought he knew about this world had changed.

  And the worst part?

  He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

  The fire cast flickering shadows across Sylthara’s face, but for once, she didn’t look like the untouchable creature of the void—the sharp-tongued specter who always seemed one step ahead of him.

  She looked… tired.

  And for the first time since he had known her, Asher saw something in her gaze that unsettled him more than any revelation of the night.

  Worry.

  Not the detached, calculated kind that accompanied her usual warnings.

  No, this was something else—something raw, something that made her wings press closer to her back, her tail curling inward.

  She was afraid.

  Not of him. Not of the Corruption.

  Of losing his trust.

  Sylthara inhaled sharply, steadying herself before she spoke. “I know what you’re thinking. That we were reckless. That we were selfish—that we let our arrogance bring ruin to everything that came after us.”

  She met his gaze then, her violet eyes swirling, no longer endless and unreadable but open, exposed.

  “But we didn’t mean for this to happen. None of us did.”

  Asher exhaled, his hands curling into fists. “And yet, it did.”

  She nodded, her throat working as she swallowed. “Yes. And we’ve carried that weight for a long time.” She hesitated, then forced herself to continue. “Asher, I don’t expect you to forgive us. But I need you to know—we thought we were saving the world.”

  He almost laughed, but there was no humor in it. “By inviting the Corruption back?”

  Sylthara’s gaze flickered downward, something tightening in her expression—not just shame, but the weight of a truth she had never spoken aloud.

  “There was nothing before this, Asher,” she murmured, her voice quieter now, stripped of its usual razor-sharp edge. “No histories. No ruins. No whispers of a time before us. We thought we were the first. The first to wield Aether, the first to shape magic into something tangible.”

  She exhaled, the breath unsteady.

  “But we were wrong.”

  Her hands curled into fists against her knees. “None of us had ever been to this place before. We had never even heard of this empire whose bones we now tread upon. And yet… it was already dead when we arrived. Its cities buried, its people long turned to dust.”

  She lifted her gaze, violet eyes burning in the dim firelight.

  “It was Vorlath who found it first. A dais, hidden deep beneath the earth, untouched by time. And upon it sat a blackened crystal—something ancient, something waiting.”

  Asher felt a chill creep along his spine. “And he communed with it?”

  “For years,” Sylthara confirmed, her voice barely above a whisper. “At first, it did nothing. It was just a relic. A curiosity. But Vorlath was obsessed with it. He studied it endlessly, reaching out with everything he had. And then, one day… the whispers answered.”

  The fire crackled, but Asher barely heard it.

  “They spoke of power,” she continued, her expression dark. “Of potential. Of something greater than anything we had ever known. We thought we had discovered magic itself, Asher. That we had unearthed the source of creation, hidden away for untold ages.”

  She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “So we accepted it. Aetheros and I helped Vorlath cultivate it. The first Aether began pouring into Aeloria through that dais, spreading outward like roots into the land. And with it, we became more than Sylvari. We became something new—something endless.”

  Asher clenched his jaw. “And Vorlath?”

  Sylthara hesitated. Then, her voice dropped lower.

  “The power changed him,” she admitted. “At first, it made us gods—or so we thought. But Vorlath… he always wanted more. He wanted all of it.”

  She swallowed. “He sought to kill Aetheros. To take everything for himself, to become the sole vessel of the Aether.”

  Her fingers dug into the fabric of her cloak. “And that’s when we saw it for what it truly was. That was when the Corruption revealed itself. It had never been a gift, Asher. It had never been magic’s birthright. It was a trap.”

  She looked at him then, and he could see it—the horror of that realization, buried beneath centuries of silence.

  “The moment he turned against us, the Aether Veins shifted. Everything we had built, everything we had become, began to unravel. The Veins darkened, twisting into something wrong, and the people—our people—were the first to suffer.”

  Her voice was barely above a breath.

  “They became the first Veinforged. And the world began to undo itself.”

  Asher sat back, the weight of her words pressing down on him like a collapsing sky.

  “So it was never yours,” he muttered. “The Aether. It wasn’t something you brought into this world. It was something you unleashed.”

  Sylthara flinched, but she didn’t deny it.

  The firelight flickered, sending restless shadows spiraling across the crumbling stone ruins around them.

  Sylthara exhaled slowly, her gaze dropping to the fire, watching the embers pulse like dying stars.

  “We thought we had unlocked something new,” she murmured. “That we had discovered magic itself. But the truth?”

  She let out a slow, bitter laugh.

  “We had only unsealed a door that was never meant to open.”

  Asher’s fingers curled into the stone beneath him. His breath was steady, but his chest felt tight.

  Aether had never been theirs.

  They had never created anything.

  They had been pawns.

  His voice was low, sharp with something he wasn’t sure was anger or understanding.

  “So that was it?” He exhaled slowly, the weight of revelation settling like lead in his chest. “The Corruption wasn’t something that just... appeared? You invited it in?”

  Sylthara’s jaw tightened. “Not knowingly.”

  Asher scoffed, shaking his head. “That doesn’t make it any better.”

  She didn’t argue.

  A long silence stretched between them, the only sound the faint crackle of flames and the distant howl of wind over shattered rock.

  Asher leaned forward, his eyes never leaving hers. “What did you see?” he pressed. “When Vorlath communed with the crystal? What did it show you?”

  Sylthara’s lips parted slightly, as if the answer sat on the edge of her tongue, but she hesitated.

  And that hesitation made Asher’s stomach turn.

  “You don’t want to know,” she said at last, her voice quieter now.

  Asher’s eyes darkened. “I need to know.”

  Sylthara exhaled, rubbing her temples as though trying to steady herself. Then, finally, she spoke.

  “At first? It was visions,” she admitted. “Fleeting things. Aetheros and I never saw them, but Vorlath did. He described cities made of light, suspended in the sky. He spoke of great silver towers, rising over endless seas. He swore he saw beings—things beyond us—watching, waiting.”

  A shadow passed over her face. “And then, the whispers began.”

  Asher’s pulse quickened. “What did they say?”

  Sylthara’s fingers clenched into her cloak. “They spoke of hunger,” she murmured. “Of longing. They told him magic was always meant to exist. That Aeloria had been empty for too long, a hollow shell where something greater had once lived. They offered him a way to fix it. To bring power back to the world.”

  Asher felt the weight of those words settle deep in his chest.

  They offered.

  Vorlath hadn’t taken power.

  It had been given.

  And that meant something—someone—had been waiting for someone like him to ask.

  His mouth was dry, but he forced himself to speak. “And he believed them.”

  Sylthara let out a breath that was neither laugh nor sigh—just exhaustion.

  “He did more than believe, Asher. He obeyed.”

  Her gaze flickered to the sealed chest beside them, its ancient metal gleaming in the dim firelight. The runes along its surface pulsed faintly, as if whispering along the edges of existence.

  She spoke again, but softer now.

  “I think we were always meant to find it,” she admitted. “That he was always meant to find it.”

  Asher stared at the chest, his thoughts churning.

  Was that what he had done?

  Bound himself to something that had only been waiting for the right soul to listen?

  He swallowed hard.

  If so…

  What had he just invited in?

  Asher let the silence stretch before finally speaking again.

  “What happened after?” His voice was quieter now, but there was no softness to it. “When Vorlath turned?”

  Sylthara’s expression darkened.

  “The first war,” she murmured. “The war before the Sundering. The one no one speaks of.”

  Asher’s chest tightened. “The war that created the Veinforged.”

  Sylthara nodded slowly.

  “We thought we were ascending,” she admitted. “That we had become more than Sylvari. More than mortal. But it wasn’t until Vorlath changed that we understood what we had actually done.”

  Sylthara took a slow, steady breath.

  “The Aether Veins had already begun to spread,” she said, her voice a ghost of something long buried. “Weaving through Aeloria like roots of a great tree. The world was thriving. Magic touched every kingdom, every city. We thought we had fixed what was broken.”

  Her lips pressed together, her violet eyes flickering with something distant—something haunted.

  “And then, one night, we felt it.”

  Asher didn’t move.

  “Aetheros and I woke to the Veins screaming.”

  Her voice was hollow, flat, but Asher could hear the terror beneath it.

  “The sky itself cracked open. The land wept. And at the center of it all was Vorlath—standing atop the dais where it all began, drowning in a sea of blackened veins.”

  She lifted her gaze, her violet irises burning in the firelight.

  “That,” she whispered, “was the first time we saw the Corruption.”

  Asher exhaled slowly.

  He could see it in his mind—the land itself twisting, writhing as something unnatural took root inside it.

  Aether darkened, veins that had once pulsed with light turning sick, branching outward like rot blooming through flesh.

  “And you fought him?” His voice was quiet, but edged with something cold.

  Sylthara let out a slow, bitter laugh. “We tried.”

  Her fingers curled into her palms.

  “Aetheros thought we could purge it from him,” she continued. “That we could sever him from the Aether before it consumed him completely.”

  She shook her head.

  “But it wasn’t that simple.”

  She hesitated—just for a breath, just long enough for Asher to feel the shape of something worse forming in the silence.

  Then, softly,

  “The Corruption didn’t just taint the Aether.”

  She swallowed hard.

  “It rewrote it.”

  Asher exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face, as if trying to scrub away the weight of what he’d just learned. But no matter how many times he let out his breath, no matter how many times he tried to steady himself, the truth settled in his bones like rot.

  They had bound the Corruption to magic itself.

  Not by accident. Not by some cruel twist of fate.

  They had done it themselves.

  His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms.

  All this time.

  All this time, Aetheros had let him believe she had created something pure.

  That the war they waged was righteous.

  That they were saving the world—not trying to undo their own sins.

  And Sylthara—

  He turned his gaze back to her, and for the first time, she looked… uncertain.

  Good.

  She should feel uncertain.

  “Tell me,” he said, voice like distant thunder, low and slow, curling with something dangerous. “What else have you lied to me about?”

  Sylthara flinched—barely, but it was there.

  “Asher—”

  “No.” He took a step toward her, and though she stood taller than him, he felt her shift backward, as if his presence alone had become something she feared.

  “I need to know. Right now.” His teeth clenched. “Are there more lies?”

  Sylthara hesitated.

  Then, softly, “Not lies. Omissions.”

  Asher barked out a short, humorless laugh.

  “Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” His voice turned sharp. “Aetheros knew what you did, didn’t she? She knew from the start that magic was never ours. That we were never meant to have it.”

  Sylthara didn’t answer right away.

  And that silence burned.

  He scoffed, shaking his head.

  “And yet, she let me bleed for it. She let me fight for it. She let me dedicate every fucking second of my life to a war I didn’t even understand.” His fingers flexed, and he could feel the core within him pulse in response to his anger—raw, volatile, feeding off of him.

  “She let me believe this was about fixing the world. But we were never fixing anything, were we?”

  Sylthara’s expression was unreadable.

  “Would it have changed anything?”

  Asher turned sharply to her, something like fury flashing in his eyes.

  “Yes,” he growled. “It would have.”

  Sylthara studied him carefully, her violet eyes unreadable, but there was something else beneath them now—something wary.

  Because she knew.

  She knew he would never see Aetheros the same way again.

  And maybe…

  Maybe he wouldn’t see her the same way either.

  But right now, there was no time to wrestle with the betrayal clawing at his ribs.

  Right now, something else mattered more.

  Something burned inside him—wild, raw, dangerous.

  The core.

  The unstable, untamed force he had bound himself to.

  It wanted control.

  It wanted dominion.

  And if he wasn’t careful, it was going to take him before he could take it.

  He let out a slow breath, steadying himself.

  “This doesn’t change what I have to do.”

  Sylthara tilted her head slightly, wary. “And what is it you think you have to do?”

  Asher’s gaze turned to the horizon, toward the ruined empire stretching endlessly before them.

  Toward the tower standing at its center, a jagged silhouette rising like the last broken spine of a dead god.

  “We go there,” he said, his voice carrying something new.

  Something certain.

  Sylthara’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And why is that?”

  “Because,” Asher exhaled slowly, fingers curling over his chest, pressing against the place where the core pulsed beneath his skin, “I need to stabilize this.”

  His voice turned sharper, more dangerous.

  “No. I need to do more than stabilize it.”

  His eyes flicked to Sylthara, dark and resolute.

  “I need to turn it into a weapon.”

  A ripple of something passed through Sylthara’s expression.

  Concern.

  Intrigue.

  Respect.

  And maybe—just maybe—fear.

  But Asher didn’t care.

  Not anymore.

  The world had already lied to him.

  His gods had already failed him.

  So now?

  Now, he was going to remake it.

  By whatever means necessary.