Asher stood atop a jagged mountain peak, the world sprawling out beneath him in endless waves of stone and mist. The distant horizon was broken by a single, staggering sight — a colossal monolith rising into the heavens, so vast and high it seemed to pierce the very fabric of the sky. Awe stole his breath.

  A presence stirred beside him.

  He turned — and there she was.

  Brynn.

  Her crystal-blue eyes locked onto his with a fierce, haunting clarity. She stepped forward, her voice a whisper carried on the wind.

  "You are not done, my king," she said, her gaze turning toward the towering monolith in the distance. She lifted her hand and pointed.

  "The Skyward Throne awaits."

  Before he could speak, she began to dissolve — her form scattering into ash and vanishing into the air.

  Asher jolted awake, his body slick with sweat, the heavy sheets tangled around his legs. His heart pounded wildly in his chest.

  Beside him, Vicky stirred, mumbling softly as she shifted closer. Her bare body pressed against his side, her arm wrapping instinctively around his waist, her cheek nuzzling against him with familiar, comforting warmth.

  A ripple of shadow stirred in the room.

  Sylthara emerged silently from the darkness, her eyes gleaming with genuine concern.

  "Master," she said, her voice low, "what troubles you?"

  Asher exhaled, wiping a hand down his face. "I had a dream," he said slowly. "I was standing atop a great mountain. In the distance, I saw what I believe was the Skyward Throne... the place Brynn and Aetheros spoke of. Yet neither has ever told me exactly what it is."

  Sylthara’s expression flickered with uncertainty. Without a word, she melted back into the shadows.

  Five minutes later, she returned — pushing a very irritated Aetheros through the doorway.

  "This is highly inappropriate," Aetheros snapped, glaring at Sylthara. "I am preparing for the campaign — there’s much to be done—" She stopped short as her eyes found Asher.

  A moment of quiet understanding passed between them.

  "Champion," she said, her voice softening. "Sylthara tells me you have a question."

  Vicky had shifted upright now, the sheet draped loosely over her, her hazel-green eyes bright and curious as she listened.

  Asher nodded. "What exactly is the Skyward Throne, Aetheros?" he asked. "You told me long ago that I must reach it... but you never explained what it truly is."

  Aetheros sighed heavily. She crossed the room and lowered herself into a chair at the writing desk, gathering her thoughts as if weighing invisible burdens.

  "You’re right," she said at last. "And perhaps now is the time you deserve the truth."

  Aetheros leaned back in the chair, her golden eyes distant, as if peering across the eons themselves.

  "The Skyward Throne is real," she said at last, her voice low but resonant. "Older than the Sylvari, older than the Sundering, older even than the memory of the gods."

  She paused, searching Asher’s gaze.

  "It was forged when the world was young — a creation of the Firstborn Gods and the ancient precursors who once commanded the Veins of Aether with mastery beyond even my own. Together, they built the Throne not as a seat of power, but as a safeguard: a failsafe to heal the world's wounds if corruption ever took root."

  Asher sat up straighter, Vicky clutching the sheet closer around herself, both hanging onto every word.

  "The Skyward Throne is a bridge," Aetheros continued. "A nexus where mortal will and divine Aether meet. Whoever claims it does not simply rule — they reshape reality itself. They can purify the Veins... or destroy them beyond repair."

  Sylthara, standing by the doorway, shifted uneasily, her shadow-tendrils flickering.

  "But," Aetheros said, her voice growing graver, "it was hidden — because power that great cannot be left unguarded. The path to the Throne tests more than strength. It demands you confront everything you are. Every sin. Every regret. Every failure. The unworthy are unmade by it."

  She folded her hands tightly in her lap.

  "That is why I never told you before, Champion. The Throne does not simply grant power. It demands a price — one most souls are too broken to pay."

  The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the faint crackle of the hearth.

  Asher exhaled slowly, his mind racing.

  Asher finally broke the silence, his voice steady despite the whirlwind of thoughts behind it.

  "This reminds me of the ruins Sylthara, Lunira, and I found on the floating continent," he said, glancing at her. "The place where the Void Core fused into me.

  He leaned forward, his emerald gaze hardening.

  "The real question is — can we even make it to the Throne? And if it's so powerful... why haven't the Veinforged or their generals already claimed it?"

  Aetheros met his eyes knowingly, as if she had been waiting for this.

  "Because they cannot," she said. "The Throne was forged to reject corruption. Meaning Pure corruption cannot approach it.”

  She stood and began to pace slowly, her hands clasped behind her back.

  "But they are not fools. It seems They seek to corrupt the Aether veins that feed the Throne — to strangle it slowly, weaken its defenses. Once enough veins fall, they could attempt an assault on the Throne itself... and if they succeed, there will be no saving this world."

  A heavy stillness settled over the room.

  Asher rose from the bed, the sheet falling away as he grabbed his tunic from the nearby chair, his movements sharp with new purpose.

  He looked at each of them in turn — Vicky, still perched at the edge of the bed, Sylthara standing stiff and silent, and Aetheros watching with unreadable eyes.

  "Then we move," Asher said. "We get to the Skyward Throne before they do — whatever it takes."

  The others nodded without hesitation. No arguments. No doubts.

  The path forward was clear.

  Asher pulled the tunic over his head and reached for his belt and armor.

  "We leave today." he said.

  And this time, they all understood: the fate of Aeloria would follow.

  Thirty minutes later, Asher moved through the broken remnants of the palace — once vibrant, once beautiful — now nothing but hollow stone and ruin.

  Vicky walked at his side, silent but steady, her presence a calming anchor against the storm inside him.

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  Aetheros followed a few paces behind, her violet cloak trailing across cracked marble floors.

  And from the corners of the ruined halls, Sylthara’s shadow flickered and curled, moving always at the edges of Asher’s awareness — a constant, silent guardian.

  They passed the spot where the College had once risen above the city like a beacon of knowledge.

  Asher paused, his gaze distant, the memory of it twisting deep inside his chest.

  For a moment, grief welled up — thick and suffocating.

  But he forced it down.

  Brynn's voice echoed in his mind: You are not done, my king.

  He believed, now more than ever, that she was still with him — watching, guiding.

  Brynn had known he would need something more than anger.

  She had left him with a dream.

  A future where Sylvari rulers sat proudly on thrones of their own making.

  Where Sylvari children laughed and played freely in streets they could call their own.

  A future built not on ashes — but on hope.

  It was a tall dream.

  But Asher would see it done.

  For Brynn.

  For Aeloria.

  For everyone who still believed.

  They stepped out into the courtyard that had once been the bustling heart of the upper city marketplace.

  Now, it thrummed with a different kind of life.

  Thousands of soldiers filled the square — humans, Durnvar, Vaelari, Morvani, Gloamkin, Eryndar — gathered in tight, disciplined formations.

  Mounts were prepared, supplies secured, armor and weapons checked with ruthless efficiency.

  Despite the scars of battle still fresh on them all, there was a current of purpose in the air — a fragile hope, binding them together.

  As Asher entered the square, the ripple was immediate.

  Heads turned.

  Eyes found him.

  He moved toward the center of the courtyard, Vicky falling half a step behind him now, Aetheros silent and watchful at his back, Sylthara’s shadows slithering protectively across the broken stones.

  The generals broke away from their companies and approached, grim and ready.

  Elara was the first to reach him.

  Without hesitation, she dropped to one knee before him, her cloak pooling around her like shadow.

  "My king," she said, bowing her head low, "your scouts, assassins, and stealth archers stand ready. We await your command."

  Asher let out a soft chuckle, the sound rare but genuine.

  "Stand, my shadow," he said warmly. "I trust you — and your blades — will carve legends before this is done."

  Elara rose, a rare glint of pride flashing in her sharp green eyes.

  Next came Jorven Icetide, his massive frame cutting a path through the gathered soldiers.

  He clapped a heavy hand on Asher’s shoulder, his broad grin full of iron and loyalty.

  "Are your Frostborn ready to brave the Wastes again?" Asher asked, a teasing lilt to his voice.

  Jorven laughed, the sound booming across the square.

  "My king," he said, "we will spill rivers of Veinforged blood for you. The Frostborn will tear open the path to your throne."

  Asher grinned and pulled the towering warrior into a tight, brotherly embrace.

  He leaned close and whispered against the man's ear.

  "I wouldn’t have made it this far without you. Stay alive, Jorven. See this through with me."

  Jorven pulled back and saluted sharply, his blue eyes fierce.

  Then Dravyn approached, grim as always, his battered armor still bearing the marks of the last siege.

  Asher turned to him with a crooked smile.

  "Do I even need to ask if you're ready, Dravyn?"

  The veteran general gave a low grunt of amusement.

  "My sword’s been thirsty since the fall of Aetherhold, my king," he said. "Just give the word."

  Tormund came next, his Dominion armor polished to a mirror sheen despite the ash and blood still clinging to the ruins around them.

  "My heavy infantry is locked and ready," Tormund reported crisply. "We’ll hold any line you ask, for as long as it takes."

  Varkos of the Dominion followed, arms crossed but a rare smile tugging at his mouth.

  "My cavalry is ready too," he said. "We ride at your word."

  Kaelen Thorne, silent until now, gave a slight nod from the side. His worn, practical armor and hawk-like stare spoke more than words ever could.

  "The engineers and siege units are prepared," he said simply. "We'll keep you supplied and your path open."

  Asher felt the weight of their loyalty settle around him like armor — heavier than steel, stronger than any shield.

  Thousands of soldiers filled the courtyard now, the growing sea of faces turning toward their king and his generals.

  The air hummed with expectation — a rising tide of hope and fear, waiting for one voice to bind it all together.

  Vicky leaned in close, her lips brushing his ear, her voice soft enough only he could hear.

  "They're all looking to you," she whispered. "They need to hear you, Ash. Give them the strength they feel... but haven't found the words for."

  Asher exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of it all — Brynn's dream, the broken world at their feet, the long road ahead.

  He stepped forward.

  And the courtyard fell into silence.

  Asher cleared his throat, standing before what remained of Aetherhold. Before him, 65,000 battle-worn soldiers and countless civilians—children, mothers, elder men—gathered amidst the ruined streets and broken alleys. Over 100,000 souls, clinging to the last embers of hope.

  He raised his voice, steady but thick with emotion.

  “My people!”

  A tear slipped down his cheek, the weight of all they'd lost pressing heavy on his shoulders. Vicky and Sylthara flanked him, each laying a hand on his shoulder, grounding him.

  He breathed in, and continued, his voice rising with iron resolve.

  “What we are about to do is a spit in the face of those who have tried to destroy us. The Veinforged generals have tasted our blades—and they have tasted fear. Fear, like the terror they forced you to live under your entire lives.”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd, the spark catching.

  Asher pointed his sword toward the ruined college towers.

  “Our queen fell there... defending what mattered most. These monsters will not stop until all we are, all we dream of, is dust. But they have miscalculated.”

  He paced before them, voice thundering now.

  “They do not understand hope. They do not understand that our dreams are not of conquest, but of creation, of family, of life itself. And because of that, no matter how many of us fall, those who remain will march until our last breath.”

  He slammed the blade’s tip into the cracked stone.

  “And I swear to you—if I stand alone at the gates of their black citadel, if every last one of you falls—I will keep marching. I will tear their cursed roots from this world. I will bring our justice to their doorstep and burn their wretched thrones to ash.”

  The crowd surged closer, their faces lifted, some shouting already.

  Asher spread his arms wide.

  “I cannot do it alone. I need you—your strength, your fury, your love for those we’ve lost. Stand with me! Who fights with me?!”

  A roar tore from the crowd, fierce and unstoppable.

  Vicky stepped forward, her sword raised high.

  “And I fight with him!” she shouted. “For every brother, every sister stolen from us! For every stolen future! For every tear we’ve wept—today, we make them weep!”

  The ground shook with the answering battle cries.

  Asher turned, drawing his sword free and raising it to the skies.

  “Form ranks! March!”

  The soldiers assembled swiftly, shields locking, banners unfurling—battered, but unbroken. Civilians not strong enough to march fell into supply trains, while the warriors formed a living tide.

  With Asher, Vicky, Sylthara and Aetheros at their head, they moved—out of the ruins of Aetherhold, across the shattered plains, into the Wastes.

  Toward Ashhold.

  Toward war.

  Toward justice.