Far beyond the vaults of shadow and storm, across blackened mountains and wind-bitten plateaus, the banners of the Western Dominion rippled in golden defiance.
Atop the high bastion of Vel Aranor, where citadels kissed the clouds and dragons once perched like vultures of war, a conclave of silent watchers stood before an orrery of runes — a colossal celestial engine that spun like clockwork powered by prophecy. Each sphere in the engine glowed with the essence of powerful lineages… and one burned brighter than the rest.
The rune marked Indra.
"He's awakened another Sigil," spoke Arcanis Varuun, the High Arcanist of the Dominion. His eyes glinted behind a lattice of gold-threaded tattoos. "Stormborn. Sealed by Bramha, raised among the Ashfolk… and now, entering the forbidden threshold."
Beside him stood Lady Cyrane, a tactician in gilded crimson, her voice sharp and cold. "That child is a threat to balance. To our bloodlines. If he survives the eastern rise and binds the fractured Sigils, he will stand above the Great Families themselves."
"The East watches him with daggers," said Varuun. "We must watch with chains."
He gestured, and a new orb hovered into view — flickering violently with unstable red light.
"The corrupted Sigil has been disturbed. That should've been impossible. Not without…" His voice trailed off.
Lady Cyrane's gaze darkened. "You think the boy carries the anomaly?"
"Or worse — he is the anomaly."
A ripple in the air signaled the arrival of another. Eirik Drayven, the Silver Hound of the West, clad in plated dusksteel, stepped forward. His eyes glowed faintly — a product of ancient rituals, rendering him a living weapon. "Say the word," he growled. "And I'll bring back his heart still wrapped in the Sigil's glow."
"No," Varuun said. "Not yet. Let him grow. Let him claim what he believes is his. Because only when he touches the final Seal…" he pointed toward the center of the celestial orrery, where a black void pulsed like a heartbeat in space, "…will we see if he is the Reforger… or the End."
⸻
Back in the vault, hours later…
Indra stood before the corrupted Sigil fragment, the stormlight on his body flickering unevenly, as if the proximity to the dark essence tried to overwrite him. Kaelari kept her blade raised.
"You don't have to take it," she warned. "It's not worth the risk."
"It's not about worth," Indra murmured. "It's about answers."
His hand hovered just inches from the fragment, and for a moment, a vision struck him — not just of power, but of eyes. Watching. Measuring.
A tower of golden obsidian.
A voice that whispered not in sound but through blood.
"They know."
He gasped and stumbled back, sweat beading across his brow. Kaelari caught him.
"What did you see?"
"War. Not here. Far west." He looked up, eyes distant. "They're preparing. Watching me like I'm… a variable in a game they already planned."
Kaelari's grip tightened. "Let them watch."
Indra looked at the Sigil again — the storm inside him now mingling with something else.
"They think I'm just another storm to weather," he whispered. "But storms evolve. They become cyclones… tempests… gods."
He rose, eyes flaring.
"Let them prepare. I will not be bound by East or West."