High above the blackened plains of Viremont, where the stars seemed to whisper secrets to those willing to listen, the wind shifted. It carried a scent not of this world—lavender tinged with frost, and something older… starlight and sorrow.
In a secluded glade, hidden beneath a sky veiled in perpetual twilight, she awoke.
She did not gasp. She did not flinch.
She simply opened her eyes.
Silver.
Unblinking.
Ancient.
A soft luminescence radiated from her skin, casting patterns like moonlight through water across the mossy stones. Around her, the petals of moonlilies unfurled, blooming despite the absence of a sun. Trees bowed inward as if recognizing her presence.
She rose slowly, barefoot, the hem of her silken robes dragging behind her like drifting mist. In her hand was a pendant—Kael's gift. The Crescent of Aethra.
She pressed it to her heart, and with a whisper, a name escaped her lips.
"Sylas."
Across the continent, Sylas shivered despite the heat radiating from the Forsaken Flame. The pulse of the crystal heart in his chest stuttered for a moment, then surged with an unfamiliar warmth. Not power. Not fury.
Hope.
Alira turned, sensing the change in him. "What is it?"
He frowned. "I don't know. But someone just… reached for me. Like a memory I didn't know I had."
She looked to the sky. The Silent Hosts had scattered, regrouping after Sylas's burst of divine fire. The earth had stopped trembling, but the unease lingered in the air like static before a lightning strike.
"We need allies," Alira said. "If this war is beginning again, we can't stand alone."
Sylas nodded. "Then let's find them. All of them."
In the crystalline halls of the Oracle Temple, guarded by time and trial, the Seer known as Elder Ryn reeled from a vision unlike any he'd ever encountered. The pool of sight had turned pitch black, then white-hot, then…
A silver-haired girl, walking among moonlilies.
A crimson sky cracking open.
A flame in human form.
And a choice that would unmake the world—or save it.
He steadied himself. "So she has returned," he whispered. "The Moonborn walks again."
The other oracles leaned in. "Will she stop him?"
Elder Ryn's voice trembled. "No. She will guide him. And if she fails… all that we know will become ash."
Back in the twilight glade, the Moonborn—Aelira—lifted her hand. Threads of silver mist spun from her fingertips, forming a shimmering portal. Through it, the world unfolded: mountains carved from bone, forests that wept blood, and cities humming with ancient magic.
Her eyes narrowed.
"I've slept too long."
She stepped into the portal and vanished, her path now intertwined with the bearer of the Forsaken Flame.
In the depths of the Abyssal Court, the Warden of Chains stirred. Sensing movement. Sensing... her.
"My prison weakens," it said. "The Moonborn calls. The Flame answers. And I…"
The shadows shivered.
"I shall devour them both."