Lyrius traveled for three days with no sleep.
The lands beyond Aeras Hollow were darker now—twisted trees, skies the color of bruises, and rivers that whispered when no one was near. The pendant she'd given him hung heavy around his neck, always cold, always humming.
It didn't show a path. It pulled him, subtly, like gravity from a forgotten moon.
By the fourth night, he reached the edge of a forest where light refused to enter. Trees rose like pillars from a dead god's cathedral, bark black as obsidian, leaves like blades.
This place had a name, though few dared speak it.
The Gravewood.
The pendant pulsed harder.
He stepped inside.
Each step felt like wading through a memory—his own or someone else's, he couldn't tell. Voices drifted between the branches. Laughter. Screams. Begging. Lies.
Then silence.
Not peaceful. Hollow.
He came to a clearing where a single tree stood—taller than the rest, branches reaching toward a shattered moon. Beneath it sat a man in rusted armor, motionless, covered in vines.
A sword lay across the man's lap.
No sound. No breath.
Dead?
Lyrius approached, cautious.
"You've come far," the knight said without opening his eyes.
Lyrius stopped. "You're awake?"
"Barely. But even in death, I remember the scent of war."
The knight's voice was brittle, but ancient. Not weak—weary.
"What is this place?"
"A wound," the knight said. "A scar upon the land that never healed. And now… it's bleeding again."
Lyrius knelt beside him. "Why was I led here?"
"To be judged."
The knight opened his eyes—pale silver, flickering like dying stars.
He slowly lifted the sword from his lap and planted it in the earth between them.
"Every wielder of Essence must bury something before they rise. A fear. A lie. A piece of themselves. The Gravewood shows you what must be left behind."
The pendant glowed, brighter than before.
"Place it on the blade," the knight said.
Lyrius hesitated—then did as he was told.
The moment the pendant touched the sword, a burst of energy erupted from the ground, and the clearing was swallowed in shadows.
The trees bent inward, closing him in.
Then… the visions began.
Flashes of faces—people he'd lost. People he'd betrayed. His mother, fading into smoke. The boy he once was, crying in a burning village. The blade in his own hand.
Then one final image.
A throne made of broken bodies. And Lyrius sitting on it, smiling, crowned in blood.
"No…" he whispered. "That's not me."
The vision spoke back.
"Not yet."
The shadows exploded outward.
Lyrius dropped to his knees, gasping.
When he looked up, the knight was gone.
Only the sword remained, buried in the earth, now glowing with the same light as his mark.
He reached for it—and the moment his fingers closed around the hilt, he understood.
This wasn't a weapon.
It was a promise.
A memory forged into steel, meant for someone who could carry the weight of what was lost.
Lyrius rose, sword in hand, eyes burning.
The Gravewood behind him fell silent once more.
He walked forward.
And the world watched.
The sky above the Gravewood shattered.
Not with sound—but with light.
A beam of gold, sharp and silent, pierced through the clouds like a blade through silk. It didn't warm the earth. It didn't chase away the darkness. It froze everything in place.
Lyrius shielded his eyes.
A symbol formed in the light—circular, with six jagged points, rotating slowly like a clock without hands. He had seen this in old sketches, on forbidden scrolls, drawn in the margins of war journals.
The Seal of Aetherion.
The first of six that held the balance of the realms.
And now it was cracking.
The glowing pendant around his neck shattered into dust. The sword in his hand pulsed, drawing the light inward, drinking the energy like thirst after a thousand years.
Then the ground trembled.
Not violently—but rhythmically.
Like footsteps.
No… marching.
He turned.
Out of the shadows came cloaked figures—twelve of them. Their faces were masked, identical. Each bore the same sigil on their robes: an eye crossed with a blade.
Lyrius gripped his sword tighter.
The lead figure stepped forward, voice cold as forgotten snow. "The seal has responded to you."
"I didn't break it," Lyrius said.
"But you could," the figure replied. "That is enough."
The others began to circle him.
Lyrius held his stance, but inside, his mind raced. If the Seal of Aetherion was breaking, it meant the ancient bindings were weakening—the walls that held back something… older.
The masked figure spoke again. "You have a choice. Come with us. Learn the truth. Or stand alone, and be consumed by it."
Lyrius didn't answer immediately.
He looked at the sword in his hand—glowing faintly now, still warm with purpose.
He looked at the sky—still torn, the seal slowly fading.
And then… he looked inward.
The voice of the Gravewood echoed one last time:
"Every hero must choose. Not between good and evil. But between truth… and comfort."
He stepped forward.
"I'll come. But I don't follow orders."
The lead figure tilted his head. "You'll learn."
"No," Lyrius said, eyes fierce. "You'll understand."
The circle broke. One figure nodded.
"Then we begin."
They traveled through realms unseen—between veils, beneath rivers that flowed backward, through doors carved into the bones of sleeping giants. Lyrius asked no questions.
Not yet.
Finally, they arrived.
A city hidden beneath the roots of the world. Lit by stars that didn't exist. Built from stone that pulsed like a living heart.
Vel'Thera.
The last sanctuary of the Order of the Unseen.
And in its center stood an altar.
Empty.
Waiting.
The masked figure turned to Lyrius. "Place the sword."
He hesitated—then obeyed.
The moment the blade touched the altar, the air cracked.
A voice thundered through the halls—not a voice made of sound, but of memory.
"The first has awakened. The world forgets its wounds… but the wound remembers."
The altar lit up with ancient runes.
A gate began to open beneath the city.
Lyrius took a breath.
Something had begun.
And there was no going back.