The capital of Velmyra shimmered in soft morning light, its white towers rising like polished fangs into a sky laced with gold. Queen Maerion Lys stepped through the glimmering arches of the Palace of Spires, her crimson robes trailing behind her like blood on snow.
Waiting on the marble steps was High King Orvain, tall and lean, with skin the shade of rich bronze and robes stitched in lightning motifs. His eyes, sharp as an eagle's, narrowed as she approached.
"Maerion," he greeted. "It must be grave if the Moon Queen comes without a procession."
"It is," she replied. "The threads are unraveling."
They walked side by side through glass-domed halls lined with murals of the Old War. One mural showed a nameless warrior—cloaked in flame and wielding blade and spell—standing before a wall of demons.
"Our seers speak of tremors," Maerion said. "Mana lines twisting. Deaths without echo."
Orvain nodded grimly. "So it begins."
"The seal is weakening. My oracle has seen… the first whisper of a return."
They paused at a mural of the warrior giving a sword to a kneeling disciple.
"Might will return," Maerion whispered, "when the world most fears it."
"And with it, a bearer," Orvain added. "Do you believe he's already among us?"
"I believe the world is asking the question. And something… something ancient has begun answering."
Back at the Arcadium, the cohort of six stood in the aftermath of a successful subjugation.
Two rogue mana-fused creatures—sky-chimeras corrupted by volatile ley currents—lay bound in sigil-sealed nets. Caelum's runes pulsed gently at their edges.
"Not bad," Bryn said, wiping sweat from her brow. "And no one lost a limb."
"Tails count?" Eilo quipped, checking his scuffed boots.
Darian watched silently, blade at his back, eyes restless.
Later, in the mission chambers, he approached Instructor Nythe.
"We're ready for more."
Nythe raised a brow. "Define 'more.'"
"A mission. Something real."
The instructor studied him for a moment. "We've had disappearances in Fennvale. Several travelers and villagers. No sign of struggle—just gone. A possible rogue caster. Or worse."
He slid a parchment forward. "You'll observe and report. No engagement. Do you understand?"
Darian nodded once.
Caelum joined his side. "We'll watch each other's backs."
Far from the Arcadium's silver light, nestled between jagged cliffs, sat a low-built tavern known as the Cloven Stone.
It was filled with smoke, laughter, and the heat of conjured flame.
At the center stood Barun Kael, former battlemage turned protector of the southern range. He was broad and scarred, with skin dark as volcanic stone and arms inked with war-runes. His armor was old but well-kept, enchanted along the spine with storm-sigils.
"Another round!" he barked, slamming his mug down. The room cheered.
Then the doors opened.
The wind died.
And something stepped in.
The creature moved on two legs. Its form was lean, smooth-skinned, humanoid—but unnatural. Obsidian scales laced its shoulders, ribs, and arms. A jagged crown of bone jutted from its skull. Its mouth was a narrow slit. Its eyes glowed like hot coals.
Barun turned. "You've got the wrong tavern."
The creature spoke.
"Where… is the Bearer… of Might?"
The room fell silent.
Barun raised a brow. "The what now?"
The creature took a step forward.
"Last warning," Barun growled.
The creature lunged.
Barun responded instantly. His tattoos flared blue. Lightning erupted from his palms, slamming into the creature's chest.
It stumbled.
Then shed its skin.
The outer flesh peeled away like parchment, revealing a second layer—darker, sleeker, burning with pulsing red light.
Barun's eyes narrowed. "Alright then."
He stepped forward and unleashed a maelstrom—lightning, fire, wind, all crashing into the creature. It twisted mid-air, landed low, then leapt, claws aimed at his throat.
Barun blocked with a rune-buckler, then countered with a groundquake stomp. The stone beneath the creature exploded upward, sending it sprawling.
Around them, patrons scrambled to flee.
Barun didn't let up.
He summoned a chain of binding runes, wrapping it around the creature's chest. It writhed—then shed again.
A third skin hit the floor, steaming.
Barun was panting now. "How many layers do you have?"
The creature moved faster. It darted left, then right, then struck with a blurred claw. Barun blocked—but not fast enough. Claws raked across his arm, blood blooming through the leather.
Barun roared.
He summoned his greatest spell: Tempest Core.
A crackling orb of compressed storm magic formed between his hands, glowing white-blue. He hurled it point-blank—
And it exploded.
The shockwave shattered the back wall.
Dust.
Silence.
Then—
From the rubble, the creature rose again. Burned. Blackened. But alive.
Barun's eyes widened. "No…"
The creature struck.
This time it did not stop.
Claws pierced Barun's chest, slowly, deliberately.
He coughed once, grabbed the creature's wrist, and growled, "Still not done."
His tattoos glowed—bright gold.
The creature hissed and tried to pull away.
It couldn't.
Barun's mana was resisting.
The creature leaned in.
Clawed fingers pressed to Barun's heart.
It tried to absorb.
Nothing happened.
Its mouth split open in a soundless snarl.
Then—crack.
Barun's body slumped.
Dead.
But his essence would not flow.
The creature stared at him, confused.
Denied.
It turned slowly to the remaining patrons—cowering in the corners.
It raised its hand.
"Kneel."
They obeyed.