They came with no herald, no light, and no intention to speak.
Six figures cloaked in timeworn veils emerged from the depths of the southern chasm, walking in perfect synchronization. Their footfalls didn't echo. The ground yielded beneath them — not out of reverence, but submission.
They were not mortal.
They were not divine.
They were Scions, born from the six deepest fractures in the tapestry of fate. Spawned in the moments when the world hesitated. Shaped in the shadows of indecision. Each was a fragment, not of truth or law — but of what could have been, and should never have been allowed.
At their center, a pedestal of obsidian bone carried a stone effigy of Liora.
Its face was cracked.
Its eyes bled a steady trickle of crimson.
One of the Scions, wrapped in chains that whispered forgotten prayers, reached up and brushed the statue's lips.
"She dreams of harmony," it rasped. "Let us wake her with war."
Miles away, Liora stood at the edge of a field of sprouting moss, her daughters at her side.
The land was healing.
Where once ash had blown for miles, now saplings broke through the earth, fed by the latent power of the Shard. The seed she had planted at the center of the Hollowspire's rim had begun to bloom — not into a tree, but a low, twisting network of vines and roots that hummed softly, echoing with rebirth.
This place would be the first bastion of the new world — not a kingdom, not a temple, but something else entirely.
A balance point.
Her daughters played nearby, shadow and light dancing across the grass like sisters playing tag. The dark twin could now call birds from the trees without killing them. The light twin could weave harmless illusions that shimmered and made her laugh.
For the first time, Liora allowed herself a small smile.
Then the wind shifted.
And she felt it.
Pressure.
Like hands pressing down on her shoulders from nowhere. Cold, sharp, unfamiliar.
A distortion in the weave.
"Vaerion," she called.
He was at her side in moments, his blade already drawn. "What is it?"
"They've arrived," she said.
"Gods?"
"No."
She looked to the horizon, where the sky trembled faintly, as if trying to warn her.
"Something worse."
The Scions did not announce their arrival.
They simply appeared, standing at the outskirts of the Hollowspire's new sanctuary like statues carved from ruin.
Liora's guards, soulbound and spectral alike, reacted instantly — blades raised, formations drawn. But the Scions did not move.
Not until she approached.
Flanked by Vaerion, Kelvir, and a pair of Dissonant angels, Liora stepped forward to face them.
There was no fear in her stride — only the weight of someone who had faced gods and returned changed.
"You do not belong here," she said.
One of the Scions stepped forward.
Its face was obscured by a mask made of melted memories — flashes of things Liora might have done: betrayals never chosen, lovers never kissed, wars never started.
"We are the echoes," it said. "And you… are the storm that silenced us."
Another stepped forward, their hands aflame with reversed fire — cold and unraveling. "You sealed the Unwritten. But you didn't stop the unraveling. You only paused it."
Liora narrowed her eyes.
"And you want to continue it."
"No," said the first Scion. "We want to balance it. You chose both daughters. You refused to make a decision. And so, you have forced the weave to make one for you."
"What does that mean?"
"It means… one of them will now choose you. And the other… will unmake you."
Back at the sanctuary, the twins played quietly in a clearing.
Until the air shifted.
The dark twin stopped laughing.
The light-born tilted her head.
A voice echoed in both their minds — familiar and strange.
"You are the heart.
She is the flame.
But which burns truer?"
They looked at each other.
For a flicker of a moment, doubt passed between them.
Not hatred. Not rivalry.
Just… doubt.
And that was enough.
The grass withered in a perfect circle around them.
Back at the confrontation, the Scions turned in unison.
"It begins," one whispered.
Another took a step forward and raised a hand.
"We will not strike. We are not here to fight. We are here to witness."
"To what?" Vaerion asked.
"The fall of the Tilted Crown."
Liora drew the Shard from her chest — no longer a weapon, but a piece of her.
It shimmered with gold and black, balanced in her palm.
"I have nothing left to give you."
"You have everything left to lose," the Scion replied. "And we… are very patient."
They vanished.
One blink, and they were gone.
But the pressure remained.
That night, Liora sat between her daughters.
Both were quiet.
Neither had spoken of what happened earlier.
But Liora could feel it. The small fissure forming between them — not in love, but in identity.
The Shard pulsed against her spine.
She closed her eyes and reached inward.
And saw two threads.
One gold.
One black.
Both connected to her heart.
But now… pulling in opposite directions.
In the old Aether Sanctum, now abandoned and collapsing into memory, the Dreamer watched this unfold.
He sat in a chair no longer connected to anything, drifting through starlit silence, scribbling the new prophecy with trembling hands.
"When both light and shadow learn doubt,
The crown will tilt.
And from the balance once achieved,
Shall rise the Choice Unmade."
He closed his book.
And wept.