The echo of the Vault's awakening rippled across the continent like thunder across a still lake.
In the capital of Elyndor, nobles stirred in their gilded towers, priests clutched at divine relics that suddenly cracked, and high mages lost control of their enchanted tomes. But most unsettling of all were the bells—bells that had not rung in two centuries—wailing from the obsidian spires of the Council Citadel.
The world had felt it.
Something ancient had been touched.
Far beneath the capital, cloaked in forgotten stone, a circle of robed figures gathered in the Sanctuary of Black Chains.
Each one bore a mask—blank, expressionless, carved from bone.
They had been silent for decades, waiting, watching.
Until now.
"He's found it," said one.
Another replied, "The Vault of the Forsaken Flame has opened."
A third: "The Bearer of the Broken Flame walks among mortals once again."
At the center of the circle, a taller figure stepped forward, removing his mask to reveal an ageless face carved in shadow. His eyes glowed faintly violet.
"It is time," he intoned. "Let the Silent Hosts awaken. Let the Sleeper stir. If he claims Kael's legacy… we shall answer in kind."
The air in the chamber thickened. From the shadows emerged twisted shapes—tall and lean, faceless, yet brimming with intent. They bent the air around them with each step.
Meanwhile, in the ancient ruins where Sylas and Alira had opened the Vault, the aftermath had only just begun to settle.
Sylas stood near the broken shell of the cocoon. The crystal heart still pulsed in his hand, though its radiance was subdued now. It felt warm—sentient. Not alive in a human sense, but aware.
Alira watched him with a quiet wariness. "You're not the same, Sylas."
"I don't feel the same," he admitted. "Kael's flame… it's inside me now. But it's not just power. It's memory. Guilt. A burden."
She stepped closer. "And what will you do with it?"
"Finish what he couldn't."
Before Alira could respond, the sky above them turned a strange hue—greenish-gold, like fire catching oil. A ripple spread outward from the horizon.
Sylas turned sharply. "That's not natural."
A booming crack split the heavens. Then silence.
Then… the sound of wings.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
The sky filled with shadowed figures—winged, cloaked in armor that shimmered like obsidian glass. Their eyes glowed with crimson fire, and each bore the brand of the Fallen—a mark Sylas recognized from Kael's memories.
Alira paled. "The Silent Hosts. They were supposed to be legend."
"They're not," Sylas said grimly. "And they're not alone."
From beneath the earth, fissures cracked open. From them crawled creatures made of smoke and steel—constructs left dormant since the Age of Sundering.
A voice echoed from the sky, thunderous and unearthly.
"Bearer of the Flame… surrender the heart… or be undone."
Sylas clenched his fist around the crystal.
"No."
And with that word, he raised his hand—and for the first time, the Forsaken Flame answered him.
A surge of power exploded from within, incinerating a dozen of the airborne shadows in a burst of molten gold. The ground trembled under the weight of the unleashed energy.
Alira drew her blades. "Well. Guess there's no turning back now."
Sylas's eyes burned. "Let them come. The shadows have answered. So will we."
Far away, on the edge of the world, a girl with hair of silver and a pendant shaped like a crescent moon opened her eyes for the first time in centuries.
In her dream, she saw Kael.
But this time, he wasn't alone.