As the first golden rays of dawn chased away Dystyx's lingering shadows, Syrith Kaen Drexil stood upon the Storm Spire's highest parapet, the Crown of Storms gleaming upon his brow like a beacon to every realm. Below him, the city stirred in hushed wonder—citizens peering from windows, Watchers lowering their spears, and robed healers emerging from their hidden courtyards. News of the storm-crowned sovereign's return raced through every alley and district.
Syrith turned and beckoned to Averith and Roukhal, who ascended the final spiral steps, their faces bright with hope and determination.
"Velkyrion's grip is broken," Syrith announced, voice carrying over the hushed crowd. "But the war is not won. The Mask of Seven Bloods still hides, and his cultists scatter to the winds. We have forged the Crown of Storms—but now we must rally the Realms."
A murmur of agreement rose. From the misty heights of the Sky District's torn spires to the scorched gates of the Ember Quarter, the people began to gather. Rogue Bloodbinders, freed earth-shapers, reformed Mist Wardens, and humbled Storm Wardens knelt in silent oath beneath their king's storm-lit gaze.
Averith stepped forward, violet fire dancing in her palms. "I call upon the healers of the Five Sanctuaries. Let our wounds be bound, and our spirits united." From unseen alcoves, robed figures emerged—wielders of violet flame and moonwater—bearing spiritual oils and luminous salves. They circled the crowd, touching brows and shoulders, their magic knitting broken bodies and lifting despair.
Roukhal hefted his spear and addressed the newly freed warriors. "To the mercenary bands, the Watchers who seek redemption, and any soul in need of purpose: stand with us now!" He sounded the call of the forge-hammer, the rallying cry that echoed through abandoned forges and silent foundries. Soon, steel-clad columns of former Fire Wardens and Iron District craftsmen marched in lockstep, their banners reforged from blackened steel and storm-woven thread.
Syrith raised his storm-lit hand. "We march for Aether'Khal's lost glory and for every realm he would see sundered. We march for justice and for vengeance." Lightning crackled along his fingers, folding into the Crown's facets and radiating outward in strands of pale blue light that danced across every face below.
As one, the gathered multitude raised their weapons—spears, blades, and staves—each cry of "For the Crownless God!" tumbling into a triumphant roar. The city itself seemed to breathe alongside them: bells tolled, banners unfurled, and thunder rolled across the distant sea of stones.
Averith stood at Syrith's side, placing her hand upon his gauntlet. "Tonight, we strike at the heart of the Crimson Covenant," she whispered. "Their stronghold beneath the Obsidian Spire awaits."
Roukhal nodded, golden eye glittering. "May their traitorous blood water the roots of our victory."
Syrith surveyed the sea of faces—each lit by dawn's glow and the Crown's radiance. He felt the weight of every reclaimed Echo—the sorrow forgiven, the vows reborn, the storm-wind harnessed. He knew that the final trial awaited: a reckoning with the Mask of Seven Bloods himself. But in this moment, he stood not as a lone revenant, but as a leader reborn, backed by the unity of a thousand souls.
"Let the realms rise with us," he proclaimed, voice carrying like rolling thunder. "Let the traitor tremble before the storm of justice he unleashed. For Dystyx, for Aether'Khal, and for all the worlds he swore to protect—I give the signal."
He lifted his sword to the sky. A bolt of pure, cobalt lightning arced from his blade into the clouds, splitting them in two and igniting the horizon with unearthly light. The crowd erupted in a deafening cheer that shook the very stones of the Storm Spire.
Thus the rally was sounded. The King Reborn descended into the streets, flanked by his storm-courtiers and faith-forged allies, each step shaking the city's foundations. In the twilight before the final assault, Dystyx stood united—and the age of Velkyrion's shadow drew inexorably to its end.