The moon-tree had long since died—its pale bark split and hollowed, branches clawing endlessly at a sky that no longer listened. Beneath its roots, where light had never touched, a door of veined obsidian opened to Kaelith as if it had been waiting centuries to do so.
He stepped inside without hesitation.
The air was thick with incense and secrets. Shadows moved like thoughts along the stone walls, whispering names never meant to be heard again. Here, in this forgotten place, he found them—the Dawnbound Circle.
Exiles. Seers. The damned.
They were draped in tattered finery, their eyes ringed with sleepless knowing. They spoke in riddles not because they wished to confuse, but because the truth had broken language long ago. One read futures in spilled sand. Another tasted memories in wine. A third wept crystal tears that burned the stone where they fell.
And when they looked at Kaelith, they did not flinch.
"The Golden One returns to us," said the eldest, her voice like falling leaves. "The one who saw too far, and fell because of it."
"I did not fall," Kaelith replied, calm as still water. "I was cast down."
They drank from silver goblets, passed around like ritual, and each raised theirs in silent toast—not to a savior, nor a leader, but to an equal.
To Kaelith.
"They called you heretic," murmured the blind twin-priests. "But we know. We believe."
It struck him then—not like lightning, but like thaw: slow and undeniable.
Belief.
Not worship, not fear. Not trembling reverence nor convenient loyalty. They believed in him, not in spite of his vision, but because of it. They saw what the Council feared to admit: that Kaelith had not bent fate, but had glimpsed its deepest wound.
"Then you are fools," he said softly, though something trembled behind his words.
"We are," the eldest agreed. "But even fools may shape the world."
In the weeks that followed, Kaelith drank their riddles and offered truth in return. He listened to their fractured dreams, rewove them with purpose, and in doing so, reshaped himself.
He became their voice. Their blade. Their golden curse.
To the outside world, the Dawnbound Circle did not exist. But in the shifting currents of the unseen, they became the first echo of a storm. And Kaelith, wrapped in velvet chains and luminous shadow, stood at their center—no longer a fallen oracle, but a rising blade honed on prophecy and wrath.
He would teach Narethil what it meant to bury its seer.
And in the darkness beneath the moon-tree's roots, the Circle whispered their vow:
"Let the stars weep. Let the veil rend. We follow the golden flame—into fire, into ruin, into dawn."
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