Sol Night, Day 25 — Late Spring, 514 E.A.

  Location Unknown — Thirteenth Dominion Ruins

  A flash of warped violet light spat them out first—Lysera, Vorak, Azeron, and Caelis tumbling through the rift before the portal snapped shut behind them with a deafening clang of collapsing Flow. The air was cold… unnaturally cold. The kind that seeped into bone.

  Caelis blinked hard.

  They stood inside what looked like a castle hall, though “castle” didn’t feel like the right word. This place was older—ancient stone, towering obsidian pillars, cracked floors etched with a sigil that made Caelis’s stomach coil.

  A thirteenth crest.

  Carved into the marble like a wound in the world.

  As his eyes adjusted, Vorak dropped to one knee instantly. Lysera followed without hesitation. Azeron bowed next, face carved with reverence. Caelis hesitated—just a heartbeat—then copied them, unsure but unwilling to be the only one standing.

  At the far end of the hall sat a throne of blackened stone, its edges jagged like torn metal. A figure rested upon it—unmoving, unfazed, radiating an aura so complete it swallowed the room into silence.

  Flanking the throne were two silhouettes:

  One robed like a mage, cloak threaded with runic glow.

  The other dressed as a scholar, cold-eyed, holding a slate of flowing inscriptions.

  Azeron opened his mouth.

  “Lord—”

  The world crushed him.

  A wave of pressure—dense, suffocating, ancient—exploded from the throne and slammed the air still. Azeron’s voice died instantly. His chest locked. His breath seized.

  Caelis gritted his teeth as terror shot through his spine.

  Lysera’s smirk vanished.

  Vorak’s eyes sharpened, but even he bowed deeper.

  The figure on the throne finally exhaled.

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  “Speak… only when I permit it.”

  The pressure receded—barely—as if the ruler was simply adjusting the weight of a mountain.

  Azeron gasped quietly and forced himself to continue.

  “My Lord… the ritual—”

  The figure lifted a hand.

  Stopped him with a gesture sharper than a blade.

  His voice, when it came, was deep—velvet laid over steel.

  “You used a mage to maintain the outer barrier.”

  A pause.

  Then, almost bored:

  “And it was shattered… by Adryn.”

  The mage standing beside the throne froze.

  The king’s disappointment was palpable.

  A heartbeat later, the mage’s chest imploded.

  No hand raised, no gesture performed—just pure, lethal will.

  The body slumped. The scholar didn’t flinch.

  The figure rose at last.

  Slowly.

  Deliberately.

  Each step down the marble altar made the air thicken, like gravity itself bowed to him.

  “Lift your heads,” he commanded. “Rise before me.”

  They obeyed. Instantly.

  His gaze swept across them like a blade drawn across throats.

  Then his attention landed on Caelis.

  “So…”

  A faint smirk touched his lips.

  “You are the recruit who proclaimed himself… and murdered your team.”

  Caelis straightened his back, pride flickering under his fear.

  “I carried out what was necessary, my Lord.”

  A low laugh echoed through the hall—dark amusement with no warmth.

  “Necessary. How quaint.”

  Caelis’s face tightened.

  Lysera’s eyes sparkled, enjoying his humiliation.

  The king stepped past them—until Vorak finally spoke.

  “My Lord… there is another.”

  Vorak’s voice held none of his usual aggression—only reverence.

  “A boy named Kael. His Aura… mirrors ours. The resonance of Val’Lumeris.”

  Silence.

  Then the king stopped.

  His shoulders rose slightly, as if the words had brushed something buried deep.

  Slowly, he turned his head—only halfway—but the air reacted violently.

  A presence erupted from him, a white-gold aura, blinding and monstrous, the same type that had erupted from Kael… but older, sharper, infinitely more potent.

  Everyone staggered.

  Even Lysera’s eyes widened in awe.

  Vorak’s pulse quickened.

  Azeron’s breath hitched.

  Caelis felt his heart slam against his ribs.

  The king walked back toward the throne.

  Aura still burning.

  Still expanding.

  Still suffocating.

  He sat down with the silence of an executioner.

  Then, with a cold, vicious, almost gentle promise:

  “The Thirteenth Dominion… shall rise again.”

  The hall trembled.

  The sigil glowed.

  And nothing—on Eryndor or beyond—would ever be the same.