Dawn broke in Tyraxis with a sound—low, resonant, not from any bell or beast, but from deep beneath the earth itself. It was as if the city exhaled after holding its breath too long.
The Glyphs were awakening.
The Rift was stirring.
And the world, whether it was ready or not, had begun to change.
The morning after the battle in the cathedral, Haraza stood with Ryve on the rooftop of an old observatory, its dome shattered long ago by skyfire. Wind rustled Ryve's short hair as she leaned on the stone ledge, watching sunbeams spill between cloud towers and spires.
("Feels... different now," she said, fingers tracing one of the glowing marks on her arm. "Like something's been cracked open in my head.")
("That's the Rift's whisper,") Haraza said, folding his arms. ("You learn to tell when it's truth... and when it's temptation.")
She looked at him. ("You've heard it too?")
He nodded. ("Every day since the Glyph found me. Sometimes it tells me things I want to hear. Sometimes things I shouldn't. It's like talking to a mirror that lies in your own voice.")
Ryve turned back toward the horizon. ("What if I can't control it?")
("You won't,") Haraza said. ("Not alone.")
Elsewhere in the city, Lirien, Brannock, Harael, and Caela had gathered supplies and information. Though Tyraxis remained civil on the surface, the undercurrents of fear were growing stronger.
Too many had seen the rift-tear open.
Too many had felt the weight of ancient eyes looking back through it.
And now, rumors spread like wildfire through the streets—rumors of Glyph-bearers. Of a Thorn reborn. Of flames walking in mortal shape.
It wouldn't be long before the Accord, or something worse, came looking.
They had to move.
Later that evening, Haraza gathered the group in the catacombs beneath the Tower of Falling Stars. Once a burial site for sky-priests, the tombs had been abandoned for decades. Only the desperate or the damned wandered here now.
And that made it perfect for what they needed to do.
A circle of sigils glowed faintly on the floor—drawn by Caela using ink mixed with dreamsalt and shadowglass.
("Each of us holds a glyph,") Haraza said, looking at the others. ("Not just a power. A piece of something larger. A will that once guided this world—and might again.")
Ryve sat on a broken column. ("But we don't even know what it wants.")
("No,") said Harael, stepping forward, ("but we can ask.")
He dropped a shard of a rift-stone into the center of the sigils.
The ground shivered.
And then the air began to bend.
The light in the tombs dimmed as if a cloud had passed over the sun—even though they were underground. Time slowed to a crawl. Dust floated midair. Torches froze mid-flicker.
And a figure stepped into the circle.
It wasn't human. Or if it was, it had long since forgotten how to be.
Wrapped in a mantle of shifting cloth that flickered between colors that didn't exist, its face was hidden beneath a mask of living light.
("You who bear the Marks,") it said, voice layered with echo and song, ("Why do you seek the Path?")
Haraza stepped forward.
("To stop the Rift from consuming this world.")
The figure tilted its head. The air around it shimmered with heat, cold, and memory.
("You cannot stop the Rift. You can only fulfill it.")
That sent murmurs through the group.
Brannock stepped forward, frowning. ("And what does that mean?")
("The Rift is not a wound,") the figure said, ("but a door. It opens when the world forgets its song. The Twelve Glyphs are the notes. The Thorn, the Key. The Crown, the Voice.")
Ryve swallowed. ("Then what happens when all twelve awaken?")
("Then the Chord will sound. And the world will remember its name.")
Before anyone could ask more, the figure faded like smoke on the wind.
The light returned.
Time resumed.
And silence fell in its place.
It was Lirien who broke it.
("So... we find the others. All twelve.")
Haraza nodded. ("Before the Rift does.")
Caela crossed her arms. ("And what about the Crown?")
They all looked at her.
("Remember?") she said. ("The figure mentioned the Crown.")
Brannock grunted. ("The Verdant Crown. One of the relics of the First Accord. Said to grant the wearer power over ley-lines and Rift currents.")
("Lost centuries ago,") added Harael.
("Until recently,") Lirien said. ("I've heard whispers—someone found it.")
Haraza narrowed his eyes. ("Who?")
She hesitated. ("A collector in Orenshaal. Calls himself the Gilded Jackal.")
Caela muttered a curse. ("He's real?")
("Oh, he's real,") Lirien said. ("And his fortress is half maze, half menagerie. Every artifact he owns is sealed behind riddles and monsters.")
Ryve looked between them. ("And I'm guessing we need to pay him a visit?")
Haraza's eyes gleamed.
("Exactly.")
They left Tyraxis that night under the cover of stormclouds, riding toward the desert kingdom of Orenshaal.
The world around them felt tighter now, like fabric stretched too thin. Villages once content now buzzed with unrest. Weather shifted with no warning—lightning without thunder, rain that smelled like old blood.
The Rift was leaking.
And something—someone—was watching.
Days later, as the sun dipped beneath the horizon and the sands of Orenshaal turned to molten gold, the group stood before the gates of the Jackal's fortress.
It rose like a mirage in the desert's heart—walls made of polished bone, towers shaped like inverted pyramids, statues of beasts that had never walked the earth flanking the path to its gate.
And above all, a single banner.
A jackal's head.
Wreathed in gold.
Haraza drew his cloak tighter around his shoulders.
("Ready?")
Brannock flexed his fingers. ("Been ready.")
Caela whispered something to herself, a dream-seed sliding into her ear.
Ryve reached for her inner fire.
And together, they stepped through the gate.