Dawn no longer rose as it once did.
Where once sunlight had simply cast its warmth upon the waking lands, now it hesitated filtering through layers of veiled energies like a dream uncertain of its shape. The Spiral's unbinding had done more than shift fate; it had changed the very rhythm of light and shadow.
In the High Reaches of Vareth'Tor, where sky met storm and clouds were laced with magic, Zeirion Althar stood on a wind wracked cliff, cloak fluttering like a severed banner behind him. His gaze was fixed on the eastern horizon not toward what was, but toward what was becoming.
Below, the world struggled to find its footing in a reality no longer dictated by destiny.
Entire kingdoms woke to rewritten histories. Rivers now flowed in reverse, tracing older myths. Languages lost to eons now filled the dreams of children. Creatures that had never existed before walked the forests as if they'd always belonged.
And through it all, the Sovereign did not act.
He observed.
He waited.
Because something still stirred beneath the veil of balance. Something wrong.
Aralya joined him, wearing a quiet expression, her long silver hair braided with starlight. She said nothing for a time simply stood at his side, letting the wind sing its ancient, haunted tune.
"Another realm vanished today," she finally said. "The Weeping Shores. They didn't burn. They didn't fall. They just… faded."
Zeirion did not move. "It's unraveling again."
She nodded. "But this time, not from ambition or war. This is different."
He looked down at his hands.
The Spiral's essence still clung faintly to his soul, but it was no longer his to wield. It had become something else alive, awakened, choosing.
"What did we unbind, Zei?" she asked, softly.
He closed his eyes. "Possibility. But possibility left unchecked is entropy."
Before either could speak again, a ripple of gold shimmered across the sky.
Not lightning. Not magic. Something deeper. Older.
A sound followed like a single, resonant note struck on the spine of the universe. It vibrated through every mountain, every stone, every being.
Aralya gasped. "That's"
"She's awake," Zeirion whispered.
Far below, across the Shattered Vales, flowers bloomed in ash. Birds that had long been extinct took flight once more. And in the ruins of Kael Orun, an unseen cradle lay empty.
"She's moving," Aralya said.
Zeirion's gaze hardened. "Then we must move too."
He turned toward the west, where the horizon warped and flickered, as if something immense pressed against reality from the other side.
"There's another force at play," he murmured. "Something that should have remained buried."
"A rival?"
"No," he said. "A reflection."
And as the morning light finally pierced the veil, it cast not a shadow
but two.