Weeks passed since the Siege of the Obsidian Spire, yet Dystyx hummed with more than mere rebuilding—it thrummed with possibilities. Market stalls reappeared along Heart Avenue, where familiar scents of spice and fresh bread mingled with the tang of storm‐lit air. Healers walked freely, their violet flames dancing in open courtyards. In every district, once‐fractured communities wove themselves back together beneath the protection of Syrith's Crown.
Rising before dawn, Syrith Kaen Drexil stood at the Storm Spire's summit, watching ribbons of mist swirl through the broken spires below. Averith joined him, carrying a lantern filled with captured moonwater glow. Roukhal arrived at her side, spear's tip tracing the storm‐etched runes of the parapet.
"News from beyond Dystyx," Roukhal announced, voice low. "Envoys from three neighboring realms request parley. They have witnessed the downfall of Velkyrion and seek alliance."
Averith's violet eyes shone with hope. "Our victory echoes farther than we imagined."
Syrith nodded, running a hand along the Crown's silver band. "Arrange the summits here in Dystyx. Let every pact be witnessed under the first true sunrise our city has seen in centuries."
Below them, the spire's great bells rang—an open invitation carried on the wind. By midday, delegations arrived: diplomats in robes of midnight blue, warlords in embossed armor, and scholars draped in silken stoles bearing storm‐glyph motifs. Each delegation brought gifts—skypear seeds that drew lightning from clouds, healing salves infused with Averith's flame, and tablets of obsidian carved with Roukhal's ancient riddles.
In the Hall of Storms—a once‐shattered chamber now restored with veins of crackling electro‐ore—Syrith presided over the first Council of Reforged Realms. The air vibrated with voices and the soft hum of latent magic. Averith offered purified waters to each envoy; Roukhal guided talks with sharp insight; and Syrith spoke of unity:
"No longer will the realms fall to shadow through deceit or fear. Let this council stand as living proof that betrayed vows can be reborn into new bonds—stronger for their testing by fire and storm."
As pledges were sworn—inks of lightning sealing every treaty—the Crown of Storms glowed in resonance with each vow, its facets shimmering like a web of living light.
Evening settled across Dystyx as the final envoys departed, their banners trailing behind them like comets. Syrith, Averith, and Roukhal walked the empty Heart Avenue once more, footsteps echoing on cobbles still warm from the day's sun.
Averith paused beneath the restored fountain, its waters now clear and lively. She leaned against Syrith's arm. "Peace feels… strange after so long at war."
Roukhal placed a hand on her shoulder. "Peace is forged just as surely as any blade. It must be attended, guarded, and refined."
Syrith gazed up at the Storm Spire, its silhouette etched against the starlit sky. "Tomorrow, we rebuild Aether'Khal. We will carry these bonds to my floating realm and restore it as a beacon for all worlds."
They stood in companionable silence as a soft breeze carried the distant toll of the spire's bells. In that breath of wind, they sensed the echoes of countless souls—once broken, now united under the banner of the Crownless God.
And as the first stars ignited overhead, Syrith Kaen Drexil allowed himself a small, rare smile. The true work of peace had begun—and this time, he would honor every vow he swore.