The Voice

The Dawn of Elyria

The first breath of air outside the Rift was sharp and cold.

Aria staggered as her boots met solid ground. The light around her dimmed to the familiar hues of dawn — the silver sky of Elyria, cleansed and calm. For a moment, she couldn’t move. The silence was too vast, too still.

Then, slowly, the others appeared beside her — Lyra first, her armour cracked but gleaming faintly in the morning light; Zephyr, bruised and weary, still smiling as though the mere act of breathing air again was a victory; Thorne, carrying Lirien, whose staff was dim but unbroken.

They had returned.

Aria turned toward the horizon — and gasped.

The world had changed.

The endless storm that had once blanketed Elyria’s skies was gone. The forests glowed faintly with dew, each leaf humming with a tone that felt alive. Rivers once blackened by corruption now shimmered with light. The ruins of old Kaelor were visible in the far distance, half-submerged but radiant — as though the sea itself had forgiven what it onc