The first warning came from the earth itself.
No scouts, no cries—only a ripple of dissonance through the sanctuary's deepest root-paths. The Shard-tree stiffened. The soil throbbed like a held breath. And beneath the surface, something that had always pulsed in harmony… shifted.
The garden vines stopped blooming.
The Watcher's Blooms turned to face east—every stem, every petal, quivering like a warning.
Liora felt it before she heard it.
She dropped her gardening blade, pressed her hand to the soil.
It buzzed like nerves on the edge of fear.
Not heat.
Not cold.
Something unwritten.
Kelvir arrived first.
His boots were dusted with chalkstone from the outer ward, his brow furrowed deep enough to hold thunder.
"I was inspecting the eastern hill roots. Something underneath them has gone… wrong."
Liora rose slowly. "What kind of wrong?"
Kelvir shook his head. "They aren't dying. They're curling inward. Like they're hiding from something."
Vaerion entered the grove a moment later, his hand already on the hilt of his soulsteel sword.
"No signs of incursion," he said. "No footprints. No fire. But birds won't fly that direction. Even the sky-runners grounded themselves."
"That's not a threat," Nyra said, stepping out of the shadows. "That's a presence."
They all looked to Liora.
She said nothing.
Because deep inside, she already knew.
The divine was not alone.
Caelen was in the gardens, tending a mossbed where moonroot thrived. The children loved to join him there—he let them plant without perfection, laugh without reprimand.
When Liora approached, he looked up immediately.
His eyes… flickered.
Not with fear.
But with something close to recognition.
"You feel it too," he said.
"Yes," she replied.
"What is it?" one of the children asked.
Caelen turned, gave a gentle smile.
"A question no one asked… but something chose to answer anyway."
That night, Liora called the council.
The air was tight with tension. Old scars itched in the backs of everyone's minds. No one said "Scions." No one said "gods."
But they were thinking it.
"We voted," Kelvir said flatly. "We gave one a name. Gave it breath. We can't vote again if something else decided to crawl in."
"This wasn't born from our vote," Nyra said. "It came from something older."
"The Aether Sanctum?" Silra asked.
Caelen spoke softly.
"No. Beneath it."
Everyone turned.
"There's a place deeper than the ruins," he said. "Where law was once written, before language knew itself. A place the gods wouldn't even walk."
"And now?" Liora asked.
He looked at her, not with fear—but warning.
"Now it's walking toward us."
The roots in the east began to rot overnight.
Not entirely—just the tips.
Enough to signal that something had entered the ley-web beneath the sanctuary.
The Shard-tree's pulse grew irregular.
Children cried in their sleep.
The soulbound warriors began waking to shared dreams—a figure made of paper and glass, whispering truths they didn't want to hear.
And then, the first mark appeared.
At the farthest rootgate, on the eastern wall, a single glyph had been seared into the stone.
It was not made of flame.
It was not carved.
It was burned in without burning.
Liora stood before it at dawn.
It was shaped like a crown turned inside out.
And underneath, a message had etched itself in a language the gods once feared to speak:
"I was not chosen.
I was not named.
I am not balance.
I am the cost of your silence."
Caelen arrived moments later.
He stared at the glyph for a long time.
Then whispered, "It calls itself Veyrith."
The name hit the air like a stone dropped into still water.
Liora turned to him. "You know it?"
"No," he said. "But it knew me. I felt it… the moment I opened my eyes. It was watching—waiting to see if I would fail."
Nyra stepped forward. "And now it's not waiting anymore."
Kelvir's voice was ice. "Then it's time to ready the blades."
Caelen shook his head. "Steel will do nothing to this."
Liora clenched her jaw. "Then what will?"
Caelen looked at her, eyes deep with something ancient.
"Truth."
The first wave wasn't made of soldiers.
It was made of questions.
Messages appeared across the sanctuary—not written, but whispered through mirrors, echoed in water, scratched into bark:
"What did she bury to build peace?"
"What price did you pay for balance?"
"What truth did you silence when the world voted yes?"
And in quiet places, some began to listen.
Not because they doubted Liora…
But because they doubted themselves.
That night, Liora stood beneath the Shard-tree with her daughters.
"They're afraid," the light-born said.
"Because something has found their fear before they could name it," the dark twin added.
Liora looked at them both.
"You've seen more of the world than I ever did when I was your age."
"We're not children anymore," the light-born said.
"No," Liora whispered.
The dark twin stepped forward.
"Let us go east."
Liora turned sharply. "Alone?"
"We're not weapons," the girl said. "We're mirrors. Whatever Veyrith is, it wants to reflect something ugly in us. Let it try. We won't break."
Liora didn't answer right away.
Then she knelt.
Held their hands.
And said:
"Go. And come back only if you find a lie that even I'm too afraid to name."
They left at moonrise.
No escort.
Only silence.
And Veyrith watched them come.