The sky screamed.
It didn't tear—it sundered.
A jagged wound opened above the Stones of Cirth, vomiting darkness rimmed with fire. Not divine fire. Not the white blaze of the gods.
This was something far older.
Pre-divine. Pre-time.
Liora staggered back from the impact as the world trembled beneath her feet. Her hand clutched Vaerion's instinctively. Around them, the Dissonant froze mid-song, their halos dimming. Even the bone dragons, fused with ancient magic, cowered under the sky's roar.
The wound pulsed once—and from its center descended a single shard of crystal, black as obsidian but glowing faintly with threads of gold. It spun in the air with slow, impossible grace. The grass beneath it turned to glass.
Liora's eyes locked onto it instantly.
"The Shard of Origin," she whispered.
Vaerion didn't speak. His breath caught in his throat.
It was beautiful.
And terrifying.
Because it wasn't just a weapon.
It wasn't just power.
It was truth made manifest.
The dreams of every soul who had ever lived. The song of creation before the gods wrote their laws. A memory too vast for one mind to hold.
And it was waking up.
In the Aether Sanctum, silence reigned.
Even Ilyra could not speak.
The gods stood as the sky of their realm flickered. Stars dimmed. The foundations of their thrones cracked.
"The Shard has chosen to reveal itself," murmured the Dreamer. "We are no longer its keepers."
"We were never its masters," said Balthoros. "Only its jailers."
"And now?" Ilyra rasped.
"Now," said the Dreamer, "we pray."
Back on the mortal plane, the Shard slowly descended.
Not toward the gods.
Not toward the heavens.
Toward her.
Liora.
It hovered just beyond her reach, as if waiting.
She took a step forward.
Vaerion grabbed her wrist. "Wait."
She looked at him, surprised.
"If you touch it," he said, "you won't just change the world. You'll become part of it. You'll never be Liora again. You'll be… something else."
"I'm already something else," she said softly.
He held her gaze. "Then promise me… if you take it… you won't forget me again."
She looked down at his hand on hers. So warm. So real.
"I promise," she said.
Then she stepped forward—
—and the Shard spoke.
Not in words. In everything.
She felt a thousand lifetimes of pain and beauty. She saw suns die and reform. She heard the first laugh of the first child, and the scream of the last soldier on a nameless battlefield.
And within it all—
She saw herself.
Not as Liora. Not as Ariastra.
But as a flicker of divine possibility.
The one who could be.
The one who must choose.
She opened her eyes.
And the Shard floated silently before her, still waiting.
"I see now," she murmured. "You're not here to give me power."
The air pulsed in acknowledgment.
"You're here to ask me what kind of world I want to create."
Suddenly, the light darkened.
A new force entered the Stones of Cirth.
Not divine.
Not undead.
Not Dissonant.
Primordial.
A being stepped forward from the shadows of the void, cloaked in ancient flesh and molten stone, its eyes twin galaxies burning in reverse.
"I am the Guardian," it said, voice deeper than gravity. "I existed before stars. Before time. Before the first choice."
Liora turned, cautious but unflinching. "Are you here to stop me?"
"I am here to weigh you."
Its gaze burned across her soul. Not her army. Not her sins. Her essence.
"You were born of stolen blood," it said. "Raised in lies. Forged in vengeance. You walk on bones and dream of fire. But you have remembered love. You have chosen pain over apathy. You have sung your sorrow instead of burying it."
It stepped closer.
"You are not pure," the Guardian said. "But you are true."
Then it turned its gaze to Vaerion.
"And you… you were made to be forgotten. You were the secret the gods feared. The soul that refused to break."
Vaerion stood tall. "I didn't return to fight. I returned for her."
"Then you may yet guide her."
The Guardian raised one clawed hand and pointed to the Shard.
"If you take it," it said, "you will become the axis upon which all futures turn. You will have the power to unmake gods. To rebuild death. To rewrite the meaning of life itself."
Liora didn't answer right away.
The wind howled.
The world watched.
She stepped forward again, raising her hand to the Shard.
It hovered closer.
Their light merged.
But before they touched, her body tensed.
Another vision. No. A warning.
She stood alone in a dead world. The sky black. Oceans dry. Vaerion nowhere. Her throne carved from shattered time. And at her feet—
The Dreamer, crucified in stars.
"You remade the world," he whispered. "But who are you now?"
She pulled her hand back.
Just slightly.
The Shard shimmered with understanding.
"You're not ready," the Guardian said. "But you are close."
Liora let out a long breath.
"I will not take it yet," she said. "Not until I know what kind of world deserves to exist."
The Guardian nodded once, then vanished.
The Shard rose into the air again.
Waiting.
Always waiting.