The Keepers had not moved in over three centuries.
They were not warriors, nor mages, nor gods. They were memory incarnate — watchers of truth, custodians of the Cycles. Even Darian, at the height of his flame, had only met them once.
Now they summoned Isen.
A summons written not with ink — but carved into sky.
Emberwatch stirred uneasily that morning. Birds refused to sing. The rivers pulsed like veins under stress. And high above the capital, the constellations had shifted — aligning into a single unfamiliar sigil.
The Eighth.
---
Isen stood in the Grand Hall, her arms crossed over her chest, fingers nervously brushing the faint glow still pulsing beneath her skin.
"I don't want to go," she said softly.
"You don't get to choose anymore," Kaela replied. "You hold power no one understands. You owe it to the world to answer that call."
Darian stepped forward.
"She's right. But you won't be alone."
He extended his hand.
And for the first time… Isen took it.
---
