In the Sanctum's inner chamber—where the light of stars passed through divine law like blood through bone—the gods gathered for the last time.
Only three remained.
Ilyra, draped in fractured marble and silence.
The Dreamer, wrapped in drifting stardust, already mourning what was to come.
And Balthoros, god of war, arms crossed over a chest chiseled from the first mountain, his battle-scarred skin lit by the flicker of ancient fire.
Before them sat a mirror.
But this was no reflection.
It showed time.
Every timeline. Every thread of what had been, what was, and what might be. And in all of them—Liora remained.
She had become too deeply rooted in the tapestry of fate. To kill her now was no longer enough.
"You understand what this means," Ilyra said quietly.
Balthoros nodded once.
"You will cease to be," the Dreamer added. "Not just die. You will be unmade. Unremembered. No song, no statue. Not even we will recall you."
The war god grinned. "Then I'll finally know peace."
He stepped forward toward the divine paradox, a sphere of folded time and compressed fate hovering like a dying star.
"The Law demands a god to power it," Ilyra whispered. "And a death outside the wheel."
"You'll have it," Balthoros said. "Just promise me one thing."
They looked at him.
"Don't lie to her again. If she survives this… tell her the truth."
The Dreamer placed his hand over his heart. "I swear it."
Balthoros reached out.
The paradox accepted his touch.
And the Sanctum went dark.
In the mortal realm, the winds stilled.
The stars pulsed.
Liora jolted upright in her war camp outside the Weeping Hills, breath sharp and ragged. Her spine arched, and a wave of heat passed through her chest.
It wasn't pain.
It was absence.
Something had been ripped from the sky.
"Balthoros…" she murmured, though she didn't know how she knew.
Kelvir and Veyron burst into the tent, weapons half-drawn.
"Are you under attack?" Veyron asked.
"No," she whispered. "Not yet."
But her voice trembled.
Because something was missing.
A weight in the world, a constant presence—gone.
Not dead.
Erased.
And in its place…
A pressure.
She staggered from her tent into the open air.
Above them, the sky shimmered.
It wasn't the Shard.
It was fate itself beginning to twist.
A tear opened.
A flicker of time undone.
The wind screamed backward for a moment. Her bone dragons howled.
And then—
A spear of golden light descended.
It wasn't a weapon.
It was a concept: the idea of never.
Never born. Never remembered. Never possible.
It aimed for her heart.
Vaerion tackled her at the last second, and the spear missed by inches.
It struck the ground where she had stood—and time froze.
Everything around them—birds in flight, soldiers mid-step, flames in lanterns—locked in place like a painting.
Only Liora and Vaerion moved.
"That was divine paradox," he said breathlessly.
"They're trying to rewrite me," she said. "Make it so I never was."
"Even the gods wouldn't risk that lightly…"
"They sacrificed someone," she realized aloud, eyes wide. "They gave up a god to fuel it."
Vaerion looked at her. "Then that's how afraid they are."
Inside the stilled world, the air shimmered again.
The spear returned, arcing with impossible force.
Vaerion raised his hand, chanting words that burned the edges of the world. His soul flared, the echoes of Death and Flame roaring through his body.
Liora joined him, summoning the raw, chaotic weave of her necromantic core.
They fused power in a single gesture—and caught the second paradox mid-air.
The scream that followed wasn't sound.
It was fate fighting back.
Reality buckled.
The camp collapsed into mist.
Liora and Vaerion landed somewhere… else.
They stood inside a place between places—a memory of a future, yet to exist.
The sky was black velvet. The ground shimmered like dream-glass. The wind carried every word Liora had ever spoken in reverse.
And before them stood the Dreamer.
Not a projection.
Not a god.
The man behind the dream.
He looked tired.
Old.
Sorrowful.
"You survived the paradox," he said softly.
"Not for lack of trying," Vaerion growled.
"Balthoros gave everything," the Dreamer said. "And I… am done lying."
Liora approached him. "Why me?"
"Because you were born from both light and shadow," he said. "Because you were meant to be choice incarnate. The gods wanted a story they could control. You were the spark that burned the script."
"You could've told me everything. From the start."
"I couldn't. I wasn't strong enough. But now… there's no reason to hide."
He lifted his hand.
And Liora saw it all:
Her birth, not in secret, but on a battlefield—where her cry silenced both armies.
Her soul, split, one half sealed in Kael, the other in herself.
The gods' fear. Their betrayal. The rewriting of her memory.
The first prophecy: "When the Forgotten Flame meets the Shard's heir, the world shall choose its god."
Vaerion grasped her hand. "They made us enemies to preserve their rule."
"But we were always meant to stand together," she whispered.
The Dreamer nodded.
"The Shard will ask again soon. When it does… be certain of your answer."
He vanished, leaving only one word behind.
"Soon."