The storm has passed.
Not a storm of wind or thunder, but one of space, will, and unraveling purpose. Where once the skies above the Fracture wept colorless light and stars bled thin, now there is stillness. Above the frozen plains of Aetheros, the breach yawns no longer—its wound soothed, its edges laced shut by a lattice of forbidden glyphs, soul-bound runes, and a single quiet presence.
He no longer has a voice.
Yet his thoughts still echo, faintly, in the hollows of mana currents. In the dreams of awakened seers. In the static of ancient relics yet to be found.
"Cael Adrios," they whisper.
"He was the first."
"He was the cost."
Beneath the Veil, he drifts—neither dead nor truly alive. Not dreaming, but remembering.
Fragments flicker in the void around him:
A moth-winged book dancing with starlight.
Mireth's laugh in a moonlit tower.
The scent of burning frost.
A prayer he never finished.
A question he never answered.
He does not regret his end.
But he wonders if the others will fare better.
If the relics seeded across the world will find the right hands.
If the prophecy will break—or fulfill itself.
And somewhere, impossibly distant yet strangely near, he senses them.
Seven flickers.
Each burning along their own path.
Each carrying a shard of something broken, or sacred.
Each drawn—unknowingly—to the wound he now holds shut with the threads of his soul.
Then, for just a breathless moment,
a ripple moves across the seal.
A whisper not his own.
"You're not alone."
Then silence returns.
But this time, it is not empty.
It is waiting.