Before the city stirred, Syrith slipped through Dystyx's silent streets, the ember-red shard pulsing against his chest. Dawn's haze had lifted; lantern smoke curled like ghostly fingers around broken rooftops. Every footfall echoed on damp cobbles as he made his way back to the hidden courtyard beneath the ivy-draped walls of the rogue healers' refuge.
Averith and Roukhal emerged from a shadowed alley just ahead, each bearing their talisman and the crystallized echo-shard from the Mist Temple. They greeted Syrith with relieved smiles, though exhaustion lined their faces.
"Three echoes in our grasp, if you include the shard you reclaimed," Averith murmured, fingers tracing the silver chalice-fragment now fused to Syrith's talisman.
He nodded. "Two," he corrected gently, "for without your vial, my Echo remains incomplete." He lifted his hand, revealing the Ember chalice's molten silver tears swirling within Averith's talisman. "But together, they will strengthen us all."
Roukhal beckoned them inside. The courtyard's ivy rustled in a cold breeze, and the secret iron door swung open to reveal the copper-piped sanctum. Threvana and her four guardians waited in a crescent formation beneath the arched lanterns. At the center, an altar of polished obsidian stood ready.
Threvana raised a hand in greeting. "You have returned—and brought hope with you." Her silver braid caught the torchlight as she stepped forward. "Place the echoes upon the altar."
Syrith laid the ember-tarnished chalice-shard first; it glowed with sorrow-tempered lightning. Averith followed, setting the crystalline vial-droplet beside it. Roukhal pressed both talismans into matching recesses carved into the altar's face.
A low hum rose through the chamber as copper pipes thrummed, drawing power from the room's ley currents. The shards pulsed in unison—silver lightning weaving through moonlit water. The healers began a soft chant, voices intertwining like threads of wind and rain.
Syrith felt the storm-fire within him flare, harmonizing with the echoes' song. The air crackled, and a halo of pale blue light formed over the altar. In that radiance, he glimpsed a memory not his own: a masked figure slipping through a burning throne room, his crown on the floor, embers in his eyes. Then the vision shattered like glass.
He staggered back but caught himself against Roukhal's arm. "I saw him—Velkyrion—in the Royal Hall of Ash!" he gasped. "He prepares another strike."
Averith's hand found his. "Tell us what you saw."
Syrith closed his eyes, letting the echoes' stabilized power flow through him. "He marched through my throne room, unchallenged—his mask whole, his purpose clear. He intends to seize the Spire's Stormheart—the legendary crystal that anchors Aether'Khal's power."
Threvana's brows knitted. "If he gains the Stormheart, his strength will eclipse every pantheon-king."
Roukhal's golden eye narrowed. "Then our next target is the Iron District, beneath the Foundry of Echoing Hammers. There the Covenant has hidden the third Echo: a molten ingot inscribed with blood-forged oaths."
Averith squeezed Syrith's hand. "We must not fail."
Threvana raised her voice so all could hear. "You carry two echoes now. When you return with the third, we will craft the Crown of Storms, a circlet to amplify your essence and shatter Velkyrion's mask once and for all."
Syrith stepped forward, resolve hardening in his gaze. "Tonight, then. I lead the assault on the Foundry. Roukhal and Averith will guard the sanctuary and tend to our allies—preparing for the Covenant's inevitable counterstrike."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the healers. Averith placed a hand on his shoulder. "Be wary of those flames, King of Storms. The Foundry burns hotter than any cathedral."
He bowed to her, then to Threvana. "May the winds guide our strikes."
As Syrith departed into the fading lantern glow, Averith and Roukhal turned to rally the healers. Inside the crescent-lit chamber, copper pipes sang with the echoes' newly forged power, and the first gesture of the Crown of Storms took shape—a promise that the tide of vengeance would not be halted.
Outside, Dystyx slept under a watchful sky. But by nightfall, its forges would quake with fire and steel—and somewhere in the Iron District, the embers of rebellion would catch aflame. The war for all realms had reached its third heartbeat, and the king reborn was ready to strike.