The morning sun bled pale light over the horizon as the group broke camp. Mist rolled off the ridgeline, curling around their feet like restless spirits reluctant to part. The air carried a faint hum — the residual echo of the Voice, still whispering somewhere deep within Eryndor’s mind.They moved in silence for a while, each lost in thought. The path ahead wound through cliffs and overgrown ruins toward the dark expanse known as the Obsidian Veil — the first threshold of the Shadowlands.Zephyr led the way, his senses sharp. “The air’s changing,” he muttered. “The wind dies too quickly here… something’s draining the life out of it.”Aria walked beside him, her hand brushing the leaves of a dying vine. “It’s the corruption,” she said softly. “The earth remembers pain. Every step we take brings us closer to where the light no longer reaches.”Thorne grunted, tightening the strap of his armour. “Then we’ll just bring our own light. Whatever’s waiting out there, we’ve faced worse.”Lyra

The Citadel of Ash groaned with age as they entered its heart. Every step echoed through the hollow corridors, reverberating like a heartbeat through the ancient stone. The air smelled of dust, smoke, and something older — a metallic tang of power that never truly faded.Eryndor moved at the front, and the torch held high. The light flickered against carved walls lined with runes — each symbol pulsing faintly, as if breathing.Aria brushed her fingers against one. “These aren’t Eldridian glyphs,” she murmured. “They’re older — pre-Voice, pre-Order. They’re… containment wards.”Lirien’s eyes narrowed. “Containment? For what?”“Not what,” Eryndor said quietly. “Who.”The word fell heavy. The others glanced at him, uneasy. Eryndor didn’t meet their eyes. He could feel it again — that whisper at the edge of his mind, stronger now, insistent.—Closer, closer… you’re almost home…He clenched his jaw and forced his steps to remain steady. “Let’s keep moving.”---They followed the main corri

Dawn came reluctantly.The light that bled across the horizon was pale and distorted, painting the world in tones of silver and violet instead of gold. Ash still drifted from the direction of the Citadel, carried by winds that hissed faint whispers through the trees. The air felt wrong — thick, humming faintly with residual magic.Eryndor led the group through the barren landscape in silence. His cloak was torn, his hair streaked with soot, and his mismatched eyes — one gold, one gray-black — caught the dull morning light. The others followed at a distance, weary and watchful, saying little.It was Zephyr who finally broke the silence. “The wind’s wrong,” he muttered, his hand hovering near his staff. “It’s moving in circles. Like it’s… listening.”Thorne grunted. “You think everything’s listening these days.”“Because it is,” Zephyr shot back. “Ever since the Citadel fell, the elements feel different. They don’t respond like they used to.”Aria walked beside him, glancing at the sky.

The storm still echoed faintly in Eryndor’s ears, though when he opened his eyes, there was no thunder — only the slow crackle of the campfire and the rhythmic breathing of his companions.The vision had been so vivid, so visceral, that he could still taste the static in the air. Arcturus’s voice, cold and deliberate, lingered like smoke in his thoughts.He’s unravelling, Eira’s voice murmured in his mind, soft and distant. The Echo is reaching him, too. The balance between you grows thin.Eryndor sat up slowly, rubbing his temples. “Then what happens when it breaks?” he whispered.When it breaks… the world remembers everything it was meant to forget.He didn’t understand, but he felt the weight of her words settle like a stone in his chest.---The morning came grey and muted. The sanctuary valley that had felt so safe the night before now seemed changed — the light was duller, the colours subdued. Even the birdsong had vanished.Lyra noticed it first. “The forest feels wrong,” she s

The storm had not touched the Spire of Dusk for centuries — yet tonight, thunder rolled across its black towers like drums of divine judgment.Lightning flared across the horizon, illuminating the jagged silhouette of the fortress. At its highest balcony stood Arcturus, cloak flaring like torn wings, eyes fixed on the horizon where faint blue light shimmered through the cloudbanks — the pulse of the Vale awakening.He felt it before he saw it.A tremor in the fabric of the world, resonating through the tether that bound him to the boy.“The Voice stirs again,” he murmured. His tone was not fear, nor anger — but recognition.He placed a gloved hand on the obsidian railing. Beneath his touch, the metal hummed, alive with arcane energy.“After all these years,” he whispered, “the song still remembers its other half.”---Behind him, the Spire’s central hall thrummed with energy. Pillars of dark crystal pulsed with violet light and shadow-constructs — soldiers shaped from living echoes —