The fortress was silent, save for the whispers.
They slithered along the walls like breathless prayers—words spoken by no mouths, heard by no ears. Maeryn stood in the inner sanctum of the Sunken Spire, the headquarters of the Voidbinders. Around her, titanic statues of forgotten gods loomed, faces cracked and weeping shadow from hollow eyes.
She inhaled.
The Titan Essence still burned beneath her ribs—alive, ravenous, and barely tamed. Her fingers glowed with voidfire, its color no longer a flame's gold but a deep, unnatural indigo. She held the power now. But she was no fool—power without control meant nothing.
A tall figure approached—clad in black robes, antlers carved from obsidian twisting from his helm. His voice echoed like dripping oil.
"Your first mission awaits, Maeryn. A simple task: destroy the shrine at Varenthal."
Maeryn's brow arched. "A shrine?"
"It holds the Heart of Eluvien—a relic that shields the surrounding towns. The Void stirs beneath that land. We must cut open the wound."
"And you're sending me alone?"
The figure chuckled. "No. But your team will not survive unless you lead. Prove the essence within you was not wasted."
She turned toward the gate, her eyes already shifting to violet. "They'll remember this."
The shadows followed her out.
At Varenthal
The shrine sat nestled between cliffs like a stubborn prayer left unspoken. Holy runes glimmered along its arches, and aether-born blossoms bloomed in the soil. Maeryn felt it immediately—the resistance, the purity.
It made her sick.
She raised her hand, letting the voidfire drip from her fingertips. Her Voidbinder unit moved behind her—five initiates, masked and silent. The air shimmered as she channeled.
The sky dimmed.
A wave of black flame swept across the shrine's outer ward, melting glyphs and unraveling sanctified ground. The ward reacted, pushing back in waves of golden light—but Maeryn was no longer the girl who trained beside Alaric in stone halls. She was a storm in skin.
One by one, her team flanked the edges. Lightning clashed. Screams echoed from the priests inside.
Maeryn stepped through holy fire and shattered the shrine's heart with a single pulse of the corrupted Titan's will. The Heart of Eluvien cracked. A tremor ran through the cliffside—and for the first time in a thousand years, the Veil beneath Varenthal split.
Beneath the mountain, something ancient stirred.
Maeryn stood over the fallen high priestess, watching her with dispassionate eyes. The woman reached weakly toward a symbol of her god.
"Why?" she rasped.
Maeryn didn't answer with words. Only power. Her voidfire flared, and the shrine collapsed into ruin.
Meanwhile: The Court of Thalenreach
The chamber reeked of perfume and paranoia.
Alaric stood before the long obsidian table of the Aether Council, wearing clean robes but still bearing the scorched lines of battle. His core pulsed beneath his skin—a restrained inferno of Fire and Stone, compressed into stillness. At the table's center sat Lord Varen—silver-haired, sharp-eyed, and polished like an untouched blade.
"You are aware," Varen began, "that your recent display—while impressive—nearly collapsed the southern warding grid. Over two dozen noble estates reported interference."
"I saved the city," Alaric replied. "Would you rather I waited for it to fall?"
Murmurs stirred.
"Do not mistake survival for permission," Varen said, voice cool. "You possess a Mythforged core. Unlicensed. Unbound. That alone is grounds for containment under the Twelvefold Accord."
"Contain me then," Alaric said, stepping forward. "Try. But you'll lose your wardens, your precious council, and your outer defenses before the hour ends."
Tension snapped in the air.
From the gallery above, Lysera stepped in.
"Enough," she said, her voice ringing like a bell. "Alaric's power may be unregulated—but it is earned. While the Voidbinders strike shrines and unleash Titans, you squabble over control."
Varen's eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"
She dropped a scroll onto the table. It bore the seal of Varenthal.
"The Heart of Eluvien has fallen."
A silence deeper than magic filled the room. Alaric's gaze darkened.
"Maeryn," he muttered.
Lord Varen leaned back in his chair. His fingers steepled.
"So the storm has begun."