The dream came like rain over smoldering ruins.
Aelric stood in the gardens of the High Spire once more—though they hadn't bloomed since the day of Kaelith's exile. Petals of starlight drifted through the air. Kaelith stood beneath the moon-tree, robes gold-stitched and eyes still warm with hope.
"You still believe in me," Kaelith said—not a question, but a sorrowful truth.
Aelric stepped forward, hand not on his sword, but outstretched. "I never stopped."
But the garden fractured, falling away into fire and whispers. Kaelith turned his back, the light around him warping into shadow, and with one last glance, he said, "Then you'll be the one to end me."
---
Aelric woke with a gasp, Tempestheart humming faintly at his side.
He knew what the dream meant.
Kaelith was not alone.
And neither could he be.
—
They gathered at dawn, just outside the city's illusionary perimeter, where ash-petals faded to dust and truth still held ground. The six—the ones fate had not yet shattered. Each scarred by Kaelith. Each bound by their own reasons to stop him.
They were more than warriors. They were history.
Vaelorith Duskbane, the shadowmage, stood first. A former student of Kaelith's, once as devoted as a son. When Kaelith fell, Vaelorith turned his back, choosing discipline over devotion. Now cloaked in void-silk and silence, his magic bends moonlight and shadow alike. His was the wound of betrayal—deepest, perhaps, for he still wore the ring Kaelith gave him.
"I'll face him," Vaelorith said, his voice barely above a whisper, "because no one else knows how he thinks."
Thorin Blackflame, dwarven pyre-knight, was next. His armor still bore scorch-marks from the Siege of Vaenholt—a battle Kaelith's last prophecy indirectly caused. Once a templar of fire and faith, now a scarred wanderer with a heart of iron and grief.
"He meant well once," Thorin growled, resting a gauntlet on his warhammer. "But good intentions don't justify burnin' cities."
Lyra Moonveil, sylph-archer and wind-scout of the Silver Glade. She had fought beside Kaelith in the Border Wars, saved by a vision of his that spared her life—but her twin sister was not so lucky. Her arrows never miss, and neither does her memory.
"He saved me," Lyra said quietly, "but not her. And when I asked why, he said fate chose. I want answers before I take the shot."
Korrak Ironfang, the half-orc war-shaman, once Kaelith's bodyguard—before he was ordered to turn on him. His spirit-beasts still carry Kaelith's scent, and his tusks ache with the weight of old oaths. Fierce and loyal, Korrak does not speak of the night he stood aside instead of striking.
"He walks the line between god and man," Korrak rumbled. "If he becomes god, I'll remind him he can still bleed."
Selene Starwhisper, the last to arrive, carried the quiet of starlit graves. An elven chronomancer touched by time, her bond with Kaelith was never spoken aloud—but it lingered in glances, in pauses, in nights they spent deciphering what the stars refused to say. She alone knew Kaelith's true vision—the one he never told the Council.
"He tried to save us from what's coming," she said, pale fingers gliding along the edge of her hourglass staff. "But in doing so, he became part of the doom."
Aelric looked upon them all—his circle, his burdened kin.
"We do not hunt him in vengeance," he said, voice low and steady. "We hunt him because he no longer walks toward salvation—but toward ruin. And if he will not stop… we will."
One by one, they nodded.
Together, they were the Six—scattered pieces of a broken world drawn together once more.
As the wind howled and ash fell like snow, they turned toward the veiled gates of Narethil.
And Kaelith, somewhere within, felt the pull of fates converging—and smiled.
---