Word of the Seal's awakening spread like wildfire through the veins of the world.
From the molten towers of the Emberlands to the skybound cities of Altareon, from the dead sands of Serrakai to the sunken ruins of Myrrn, whispers carried one name:
Lyrius.
In a throne room carved from the heart of a glacier, Queen Virel of the Frostbound Empire clenched her fingers around a goblet of burning wine.
"He touched the Seal?" she asked, voice sharp enough to cut ice.
Her informant—a pale oracle with frostbitten eyes—nodded. "And it responded. As the Prophecy said."
Virel stood. "Then the game begins."
Elsewhere, beneath the desert stars of Serrakai, a boy no older than twelve sat cross-legged in a pit of fire, whispering to bones.
"The gate has opened," he said to no one.
The bones whispered back.
"Bring me the boy," he answered.
And in the skies above the world, drifting atop a floating continent, the Blind King played a song on a harp made of dragonspine.
He smiled.
"At last… a rival."
Meanwhile, Lyrius returned to the surface through a stone circle hidden beneath Vel'Thera. The cloaked figures waited. Silent.
But something was different.
They bowed.
Not in obedience.
In acknowledgement.
Lyrius didn't speak. He walked past them, the sword on his back pulsing faintly, and the feather from the Archivist tucked beneath his cloak. Each step he took left a faint shimmer—Essence responding now, naturally, like breath.
But peace didn't follow him.
Trouble had been waiting.
The attack came at dawn.
A black-winged beast crashed through the horizon like a living comet, flames trailing its tail. Riders cloaked in obsidian leathers leapt from its back, blades drawn, eyes glowing with unnatural fire.
The Crows of Hollowspire.
Assassins. Bounty hunters. And worse—Collectors.
They came for Lyrius.
He met them in the field outside Vel'Thera.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
The wind twisted around him, sharp with power. His mark glowed. The sword slid from its sheath with a whisper.
The first Crow lunged.
Lyrius ducked beneath the blow, turned, and struck.
One movement.
One life gone.
The others hesitated.
Too late.
He was already among them.
Sword and Essence became one. He didn't just fight—he dismantled. Their formation crumbled. Their fear screamed louder than their weapons.
When it ended, only one remained—kneeling, bleeding.
"Who sent you?" Lyrius asked.
The Crow looked up, grinning through blood.
"We didn't come to kill you," he said. "We came to test you."
"Test?"
The Crow's body convulsed. Essence flared.
And then he exploded, vanishing into black mist.
Lyrius stood alone again, heart pounding.
A message, not a battle.
And behind it… something worse.
He looked east—toward the horizon.
Storms were gathering.