High above the clouds of planet Thal'mira, where the air thinned and stars could be seen even during daylight, there drifted a temple built into the bones of a floating mountain. The people called it Kiruva, the Temple of Wind and Flame. It had no engines, no tech. It hovered by the will of the world itself — or so the monks believed.
Within its stone halls, lit by sky-lanterns and the scent of burning incense, a boy knelt in silence. He had been kneeling for three days without food, water, or sleep. The elders watched him from afar, whispering prayers, unsure whether to be afraid or in awe.
His name was Taran Vel, and he had not spoken since the visions began.
At sixteen, Taran was the temple's most disciplined acolyte — calm, precise, silent in motion, sharp of mind. His masters called him the Still Flame. But now the flame was rising, and stillness was breaking.
Inside his head, the storm raged.
A sea of stars collapsing into a spiral.
A throne made of shattered moons.
A hand reaching through time, offering him fire.
Taran opened his eyes. They glowed with golden light.
He rose slowly, the floor beneath him cracking with a soft tremor. The other monks gasped. The ancient stones of Kiruva had stood for millennia. They had never cracked for anyone.
The head monk, Master Iro, stepped forward. "Child," he said softly, "what are you becoming?"
Taran looked at his hands. Light danced along his veins, swirling in patterns that shifted like flame in the wind. He spoke for the first time in days.
"I saw the Sigil. I saw the circle."
Master Iro's breath caught.
"The Sigil of Unity?" he whispered. "You are… one of them?"
Taran's gaze lifted to the high ceiling, where carvings of ancient gods and fallen stars told the story of creation. "I am not sure what I am. Only that I have been called."
He extended a hand toward the flame altar — a sacred relic of Kiruva said to hold the eternal spark of Thal'mira's creation. The flame rose in response, stretching toward him like a loyal beast.
The monks fell to their knees.
Master Iro stared at him, eyes wide with awe. "The prophecy… we thought it was metaphor. Myth. But the Starborn were real?"
Taran closed his eyes. "Not all myths are lies. Some are warnings."
The flame surged behind him, painting the walls with golden fire. And in that moment, something beyond the temple felt the shift.
Far above, piercing the veil between dimensions, the Voidspawn stirred.
It sensed the light awakening in Thal'mira. It had felt the girl on Earth. The boy in Tal-9. And now the monk.
Three of Seven.
The Balance was tipping.
In the dark, the Voidspawn whispered a name not spoken in eons.
"Kaelen…"
Back aboard the Eclipse, Kaelen stared at the third flare of light on his holomap. He didn't smile. He didn't speak. He simply stared, his eyes colder than space.
Seris looked up from the console. "That's three."
"Too fast," Kaelen murmured. "This shouldn't be happening so quickly. Something's forcing the Awakening."
Seris frowned. "What would force it?"
Kaelen turned to her, slowly. "A breaking Veil. Or a breach."
She swallowed hard. "Then the Voidspawn are already moving."
"They are," he said. "And we're out of time."
He turned back to the map and pointed to a sector not far from Thal'mira. "Divert the ship. We go to the floating temple. Taran Vel must be brought in before the darkness reaches him."
Seris hesitated. "And the other two?"
Kaelen's voice was calm, but final. "If we don't reach Taran, there won't be anyone left to reach the others."
Back in Kiruva, Taran stood alone at the temple's edge. The skies stretched endlessly below. Stars above. Wind whipping through his robes.
He could feel them now — the others.
A girl of stone and dream.
A boy of code and light.
He didn't know their names. But he knew their pain. Their fear. Their strength.
He whispered to the wind, "We are waking."
And from across the Realms, the stars whispered back.