Then, they launched — sharp as thought, silent as breath. The first impact carved a gash through the corrupted flesh of the beast. A second blade struck the plated ribs, sending shards flying. The creature growled, though no sound escaped. Each hit robbed it of shape, but not of fury. It pushed forward, defying the assault, its claws tearing the ground as it fought the currents.
Merial stood firm, though her legs trembled beneath her. Her temples throbbed. Her vision blurred. She was no longer casting a spell — she was the spell.
Air bent unnaturally around the beast, closing in, tightening. The assault became no longer about cutting — it became compression. A mass of pressure, invisible yet unstoppable, formed around the wolf. The atmosphere thickened like liquid steel. Its limbs convulsed as if drowning on dry land.
Syrial's eyes widened.
"No… she's forming a pressurization field!" she whispered, horrified. Not here. Not inside a Zone… it will take everything from her.
Her hand moved instinctively to activate a failsafe rune — but it was too late.
The air itself collapsed inward with a low, bone-deep thump — not sound, but force. The creature's form jerked violently, then froze mid-motion. Its body imploded silently, the sheer density folding bone, root, and muscle into itself. Within a heartbeat, it became something unnatural: a perfectly round sphere of compressed flesh, stone, and blood. Smooth. Shining. Silent.
Dead.
Merial gasped, collapsing to her knees as the winds around her fractured and vanished. Her vision dimmed. The runic energy in her bracelet flickered once, then died, leaving the stone dull and lifeless. She was panting, her hands trembling uncontrollably, her mind echoing with the force she had just unleashed — and the price it demanded.
Syrial rushed to her, kneeling by her side, one hand trembling just above her back. The elder's eyes burned with awe… and fear.
"You channeled the storm, child," she murmured. "And nearly shattered yourself with it."
Merial tried to answer but no words came. Her magic was silent now. Spent.
The remains of the battle — the twisted, blackened orb — rolled once in the still air and stopped. The grass around it had died instantly, singed to ash. The very earth beneath had sunken slightly, a perfect indentation where the pressure had crushed the soil.
Even the mist held its breath.
Syrial managed a smile, despite the blood on her lips. She looked at her pupil, who had saved her from total exhaustion. Using all her energy would have had grave consequences, but thanks to the young one, she had spent just over 20% of her reserves. With rest and meditation, she would recover.
Fragments of the ritual, now shattered, lay scattered across the area. The mist swallowed the clearing opened by the wind magic, as if trying to conceal the void that lingered. With trembling hands, Merial began collecting what she could. They needed to study the remnants and uncover the ritual's purpose.
Suddenly, the entire clearing seemed to pulse with latent energy: branches cracked, stones shifted, a distant echo rumbled beneath their feet. Merial knew that Dead Zones weren't always fixed. Only a few became permanent, transforming into Forbidden Zones. The others healed with time, reclaimed by the Dome's power. And the death of the Child of Silence seemed to have freed this area. But how? She looked to her master, still unmoving, her runes glowing.
Syrial finally stirred, her expression grave and troubled.
"We are not alone," she murmured.
She sensed presences — shadows beyond the Dome's reach. Under her guidance, they descended the rocky trail down the mountain, hearts pounding. Each step demanded effort against fatigue, but urgency outweighed any pain. They had to leave and report to the nearest council.
Something was creating Dead Zones. And, it seemed, also forging the Children of Silence. But for what purpose?
They both sensed that what they had witnessed was only the prelude to something much greater.
Four days later, Merial and Syrial once again climbed the misty trails. Each step was a struggle against thick mud and biting cold. They wore ceramic masks to filter void particles, and their soaked robes clung to their light leather tunics. The young apprentice carried a reinforced satchel with gray soil samples, corroded Shyrr shards, and charred ideogram fragments.
"We must reach the university and report what happened. The next inspections must be done in groups, and with fighters," said Syrial, eyes fixed on the veiled horizon.
Merial nodded, feeling the weight of the fragmented glyphs in her bag. The nights were marked by quiet escapes: they disguised themselves at Alderyn's gates as root merchants from Naruun; along the way, they aided a wounded messenger and heard reports of tremors in Arenya's caves and sandstorms in Sangor.
But the sense of being watched chilled the air even more. Two figures slid among the twisted trees, never touching the ground — dark silhouettes vanishing behind trunks. Merial, in particular, noticed fleeting rune-glows on the leaves, as if ancient symbols were being activated to track them.
"Master, there's... something following us,"Merial whispered, clutching Syrial's hand, eyes wide with tension.
"Stay alert. If it's an enemy, we'll have to act fast."
The narrow path opened into a plateau of glowing bamboo — a sign they were near Ny'theras University.
On the third night, they slept beneath a starless sky. In her dreams, Merial heard a voice echo in her mindspace, nearly shattering her consciousness:
"When all the runes are united, the Dome shall sing — and the Bearer shall hear. Protect him, Merial."
She awoke with a jolt. The sky had vanished beneath red clouds — as if the very firmament cried out with urgency.
Meanwhile, in Olkaris, the noble Olkhar gathered in the Crystal Hall, exchanging rumors of tremors within the Dome. A coded message from the Sylarei capital had arrived only hours earlier: Dead Zones were appearing in every kingdom. As if the constant attacks on Shyrr convoys weren't problem enough.
In the vast hall, the air buzzed with tension and murmurs. The Olkhar representatives, dressed in robes woven with metallic threads, exchanged worried glances as Regent Thomis stepped up to the podium. Behind him, quartz panels reflected the embers from the council's lower chamber, where emissaries of all races joined virtually via projections.
As he began to speak, Thomis raised his voice:
"All races know the value of Shyrr. And the new Dead Zones are compromising the flow of our shipments. Not to mention the anomalous behavior of the Dome. This Council must approve an emergency alliance."
The silence that followed was broken only by the crackle of crystal — a harbinger of decisions that would shape the fate of all.