High above the molten spires and stormglass towers of Virelion, the Citadel loomed like a crowned god. Black-stone bridges arced between ancient sky-pillars, suspended over endless clouds. Lightning curled in the distance, not from storms, but from the countless elemental reactors buried beneath the capital. And atop it all, nestled within the heart of the empire, stood the Sanctum of Verdicts—the war chamber of Monarchs.
It was a circular chamber, impossibly vast. Seven stone thrones, carved from obsidian and etched with ancient runes, formed a ring around a recessed center. Every throne pulsed faintly with the color of its ruler's elemental dominion—silver, azure, crimson, emerald, and more—each casting long shadows along the polished black floor.
Today, they all were filled.
Seven Monarchs sat in silence.
Thalor. Zephyra. Vorun. Elari. Solene. Zevarion. Varion.
Each of them carried authority enough to command armies that could raze continents. Yet now, they sat without a word, the tension in the room strangling. For the first time in decades, they had all been summoned together… and not by choice.
A low hum rose from the walls—ancient wards adjusting. Above, an arcane sun pulsed like a heartbeat, keeping time in this sanctified space.
In the center of the chamber, a glowing obsidian pedestal projected reports and fragments of data—battlefield surveillance, images of elemental destruction, and a single name that repeated across the glyphs:
Klaus. Age: 15. Status: Unknown.
One Monarch finally spoke. Zephyra, voice cold as mist. "He destroyed the Pyreborn detachment and left Varion's entire force in ruins."
Elari leaned forward, eyes sharp. "But where is he now? No trace. No signature. Nothing but scorched stone and shattered flame."
Vorun scoffed, his armored fingers drumming against his throne. "A child with lightning and wind. He appears, unleashes hell, then vanishes like smoke. And we have no answers."
Varion's jaw was tight. He said nothing.
Thalor broke the silence, gaze focused on the glyphs. "We must consider the larger picture. This boy—whatever he is—has disrupted the balance. Entire factions will rise or fall based on his existence. If we ignore him, we risk far worse."
Solene's tone was sharper. "Then what do you propose? Hunt him? Enlist him? Or erase the name entirely?"
A pause.
Then footsteps.
Outside, trumpets carved from stormbone blared their grim tune. Down the gleaming corridor, rows of golden-armored Archeons raised their halberds high, chanting a single name as the final doors hissed open with divine precision:
"Emperor Malrik Vortan, the Flame That Commands the Sky, Sovereign of the Seven Crowns, the Unbroken Will of the Immortal Throne."
The Emperor's entrance was not heralded by fanfare—there was no need. His presence alone commanded the attention of the room.
The doors groaned open, and the figure that emerged into the Sanctum was not merely a man—it was a force of nature. Tall and imposing, his every step seemed to resonate through the very walls. His silvered hair flowed behind him like a river of molten metal, his face marked by the scars of battles past, each one a testament to his unyielding dominance. But it was his eyes—burning amber, like molten lava—that held the most power. They seethed with an ancient fire, the kind that had consumed worlds and left them smoldering in the wake.
Malrik Vortan walked forward, each step a quiet command, his movements steady and measured, as if the ground beneath him bent to his will.
The Monarchs—powerful in their own right—rose without a word. Their posture straightened, their faces hardening in the presence of their Emperor. They bowed for it was necessary. The air thickened around them, alive with the weight of his aura.
When he reached the center of the chamber, Malrik raised a single hand, and instantly, all fell silent.
"Sit," he commanded.
Without hesitation, the Monarchs returned to their seats, their eyes locked on him.
Malrik turned toward the obsidian pedestal. The reports still hovered, glowing faintly in the air.
"I've heard your concerns," he said, his voice low but clear. "This anomaly. This force of destruction that razed the Pyreborn and vanished into smoke."
His eyes scanned the projections, but there was no surprise in them.
"You ask who he is. What he is."
He waved a hand, and a new projection appeared—one none of them had seen before. Etched into stone, buried deep in the wreckage of the battlefield, a single word remained untouched by flame or wind:
Aetherion.
Some of the Monarchs inhaled sharply.
Solene's voice dropped. "Impossible. That bloodline was—"
"Erased," Malrik finished. "Or so we believed."
He turned, gaze burning into each of them. "Only one truth remains: this name was never meant to be forgotten. Only hidden. And only the Emperors of this realm were ever meant to remember."
He stepped forward, his voice now thunderous in its weight. "Klaus is not an anomaly. He is an heir. The last of the stormwalkers. The final flame of a bloodline that once made even the stars tremble."
Silence.
Malrik's voice dropped again. "The Aetherions have returned. And with them… comes the storm."