The silence after the storm felt unnatural. The air over Valenor hung heavy, charged with the remnants of Kael’s creation — the Aetherblade still humming faintly in his grasp like a heartbeat made of light. Below, the floating city burned. The Archmage Council’s spires cracked under invisible pressure, their wards shorting out from the pulse of Kael’s awakening. What had once been the world’s symbol of order now drifted in chaos — mages shouting, sigils collapsing, spells unraveling midair. Kael stood among the wreckage, his cloak torn, his eyes cold. The Runeblood glow beneath his skin flickered like embers struggling against the wind. Lira stared at him, disbelief in her voice. “They’ll come for you after this. You broke every law of the Guild, Kael. Every one.” He sheathed the Aetherblade, its edge dissolving into pure essence. “Then their laws were never meant to save us.” He turned toward the horizon — the ruins of Orin’s home somewhere far beyond the cloud line. The me

The Warlands’ horizon shimmered under a bruised sky, where jagged spires of obsidian jutted from the cracked earth like the teeth of some fallen god. Kael and Lira moved cautiously through the open plains, the Aetherblade strapped to Kael’s back, pulsing faintly with his life force. Every step resonated with the echoes of battles long past; the land itself seemed to murmur warnings of danger. “I don’t like this,” Lira muttered, her eyes scanning the horizon. “Too quiet. Too still.” Kael’s hand rested on the hilt of the Aetherblade, the faint glow of fused fire and frost flowing along his veins. “Quiet is never safe. Rogan warned us — the Warlands don’t forgive hesitation.” Their caution proved prescient. From the swirling dust to the east, a band of figures emerged — seven mercenaries, each radiating relic-born magic. Their eyes glimmered with unnatural light, and their weapons were etched with runes that pulsed with corrupted energy. One stepped forward, taller than the rest, a j

The sun sank low over the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of crimson and gold. Emberfall, a modest village nestled between the jagged cliffs of the southern Warlands, lay quiet under the dying light. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, the scent of burning wood mingling with the crisp evening air. It should have been peaceful. But peace, Kael knew by now, was a fragile illusion. Lira crouched beside him on a ridge overlooking the village. “They’re here,” she whispered, her voice taut with tension. Across the valley, the banners of the imperial soldiers flapped in the wind, their ranks marching with disciplined precision. This was no small patrol — it was an assault. Kael’s hand brushed the Aetherblade at his side. The pulse of the Aetherheart throbbed beneath his chest, sensing the tide of fear and aggression. “They’ve come for Emberfall because of the relic rumors,” he said quietly. “And if we don’t act fast…” His voice trailed as he surveyed the soldiers: hundreds of heavily a

The sun hung low over the jagged horizon, casting the Shattered Peaks in hues of crimson and gold. Kael and Lira descended the final ridges, their breath steaming in the icy air, their cloaks torn and dusted with frost. The Aetherblade hummed faintly at Kael’s side, its elemental resonance matching the rhythm of his heartbeat. Every step brought them closer to the open plains below — and into the teeth of the Mage Guild. Lira squinted toward the valley. “We’re not alone,” she said, voice tight. Her hand brushed against the hilt of her dagger. “Guild banners… hundreds of them. And they’ve spotted us.” Kael’s jaw tightened. He had expected pursuit — after all, he had become an outlaw in the eyes of every council and guild in Eldoria. But the scale of the assault was more than he anticipated. From the valley floor, a legion of mage-hunters, armored and wielding relic-infused magic, advanced with precision. Elemental flames licked their gauntlets, shadowy tendrils coiled around staffs,

The wind howled across the cliffs of the Celestine Peaks, carrying shards of snow and the faint scent of ozone. Kael and Lira ascended the final ridge, their breaths shallow in the thinning air, their cloaks flapping like banners in a storm. Above them, the Sky Monastery floated amidst the clouds, its white spires glinting gold under the sun. The structure was said to be ancient, older than any mage’s memory, where air itself was taught as both weapon and shield.“Kael… it’s beautiful,” Lira whispered, shading her eyes as they approached. “Do you think they’ll even let us in?”Kael didn’t answer immediately. His amber eyes traced the spires, noting the way the wind shifted unnaturally, forming currents as if the monastery itself were alive. “They’ll let us in,” he said finally. “But only if we prove we belong.”The path was treacherous, narrow ledges winding along sheer cliffs. Every step demanded focus; one misstep would send them tumbling into the clouds below. Kael’s pulse synchron