In the glowing heart of the white dwarf star, beneath strata of fusion storms and blinding radiance, the Sanctuary of the First Prime lay still—an ancient cradle of power built in the earliest breath of the cosmos. Here, beneath spirals of stellar fire, Aetherion stood alone.
His slumber was over.
He had dreamed of ashes, of ruin, of a throne forged in silence and guarded by deathless echoes. Yet as the star's song whispered against his skin, he felt neither dread nor comfort—only the weight of awakening.
He opened his eyes.
Aetherion's body shimmered faintly, his Solarii form still young, still incomplete. He was not yet the king he was meant to become. Not yet the wrath destined to blaze through dying worlds. But within him stirred the first seal—still bound, still dormant.
He stepped forward.
The sanctuary, forged by the First Solaris Primus, was circular in shape—its architecture reminiscent of celestial geometry. Monolithic statues lined the hall, all faceless but regal, their blades raised skyward. Each one marked the bearer of a Seal.
From the central dais rose a voice—soft, ancient, yet heavy with knowing.
"You are late, child of light," it spoke. "But time bends for those born of destiny."
It was The Maw of Knowing, the silent watcher of all Primes, his voice woven into the ether of the sanctuary. Neither enemy nor ally, but the keeper of truths and trials.
Aetherion did not bow. "I do not need riddles," he said. "Only the path to the First Seal."
A pause, then laughter—dry, distant, echoing.
"Then bleed, heir of radiance. The First Seal demands it."
The ground beneath him cracked, revealing a spiral descent into pure light. Without hesitation, Aetherion leapt.
Downward he fell, deeper into the star's core—where light itself screamed, distorted by the pressure of a thousand suns. His skin peeled, his essence burned, and still he endured.
This was the trial: not of strength, but of suffering. To awaken the First Seal: Instant Dawn, he would need to slice through light itself—to move faster than the photon.
Three days passed.
In that blinding hollow, he stood—sword drawn, breath shallow. The Primus Blade, forged from collapsed stardust and legacy, pulsed in his hand.
Then he moved.
A strike so fast, so absolute, it did not shine—it erased. The light parted in silence.
The Seal broke.
And with it, Aetherion's aura surged—dull no longer, but radiant, blistering. His body still a shell of potential, but now... now it bled light.
He returned to the Sanctuary—changed. A flicker of his destined self burned in his eyes.
But far above, beyond the star's veil, something watched.
And somewhere, far darker, Velzara—the False King—stirred from his own throne of hollow fire, feeling the shift in power.
The Endborne King had begun to rise.