Far beneath the earth—far beyond the Vault's sealed doors and sacred halls—something moved.
Darkness, ancient and undisturbed for centuries, quivered as if exhaling its first breath in an age. Cracks laced across obsidian stone like veins under skin. A pulse echoed once... then again, steady and deep.
The Vault had opened.
And now, He knew.
Liara froze mid-sentence, her fingers brushing the edge of the sphere.
"What was that?" she whispered.
A tremor rolled through the floor—subtle, but undeniable.
Cassian instinctively reached for his blade, even though the room held no visible threat. "That wasn't the Vault. That came from below."
Aeron's eyes narrowed, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "We triggered something."
Suddenly, the glowing glyphs overhead burst like stars, flaring with blinding intensity before collapsing into a spiral that burned a single word into the air:
"He awakens."
Across the continent—on mountaintops, within ruins, inside ancient temples long forgotten—mirrors cracked, runes ignited, and prophecies stirred. Oracles screamed from their sleep. Seers drowned in visions of flame and ruin.
In a far-off sanctuary, the last High Oracle of Syeralyn staggered to her feet, eyes milk-white and wide.
"The Warden has woken," she rasped.
"The first key has turned.
The bond is forged.
And the world will burn unless the soul chooses the flame."
Back in the Vault, Liara dropped the book as it began to crumble in her hands, the ink smoking, pages disintegrating like ash.
"What's happening?" she gasped, heart hammering.
Cassian wrapped a steadying arm around her. "Whatever was sealed down here didn't want to be forgotten. It was waiting."
Aeron moved to the altar, eyes darkening. "Not waiting. Watching."
From the key of light, a tendril of shadow flickered for a moment—just long enough to make them all freeze.
Because it had eyes.
It vanished in an instant.
But the message was clear.
They weren't alone anymore.
Deep within a catacomb long buried by time, the last lock fell away with a thundering groan.
A figure cloaked in twilight stepped from his prison, silver hair falling over jet-black armor, his expression unreadable—but his hunger palpable.
He stretched one hand toward the skyless ceiling, and magic danced across his palm like liquid night.
"The soul has chosen," he murmured.
"Let's see if she remembers me."