Far north of the kingdom's borders, beyond the emerald valleys and dense pine-covered ridges, stood the forgotten ruins of Varthrak Keep, nestled high in the jagged spines of the Ardent Mountains. The wind there never stopped; it howled like a vengeful spirit, clawing through shattered stone walls, moaning against splintered doors, carrying ancient whispers.
Tonight, the wind did not howl.
It held its breath.
Within the central chamber of the ruins, surrounded by frostbitten columns and moss-blackened banners, a circular mosaic shimmered to life. The floor, once dormant, began to hum with a deep, guttural resonance. Frost melted instantly from the stones. Old dust stirred. And in the exact center of the faded mosaic—a depiction of a chained woman with eyes of void and wings stretched across continents—the chains cracked.
A soft pulse of light, red and hungry, rippled outward in silence.
Deep below the keep, beneath the chambers and hidden sanctums long abandoned, something exhaled. Something ancient. Forgotten. Watching. Waiting.
The Altar of Varthrak, one of the four binding foci of the Great Darkness, had fractured.
And now, it whispered to those who could hear it. And a few did.
---
In the southern wilds, near the cliffs of Ar'Mira, a hooded man stirred from his meditation. His body convulsed with a sudden jolt, like a puppet tugged by unseen hands. His eyes rolled to white, and his mouth opened in a silent scream. A moment later, his breath returned—shallow, reverent.
He knelt slowly before the circle of stones lit with faint glyphs, his knees pressing into the chalked runes on the earth.
"She has awakened," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, but the stones vibrated in agreement. "One seal undone... The first door creaks."
From the trees emerged others—men and women cloaked in crimson, faces hidden behind carved wooden masks. Each moved as if drawn by the same force, their hands trembling, their steps purposeful. They formed a circle around the kneeling figure.
"The cycle resumes," one of them said, her voice laced with awe.
"We are no longer forgotten," said another.
The leader nodded. "Prepare the sanctums. Gather the faithful. Light the beacons in the four corners of shadow. She must be ready when the next falls."
"But what of the saint?" a masked figure asked.
The leader turned his head, and beneath the hood, two golden eyes flickered unnaturally. "Let him play his part. The seals do not break by chance. He may slow it, but he cannot halt the tide."
---
Elsewhere, a lighthouse keeper named Rhosven awoke to silence.
The sea, which never slept, had stopped moving.
No waves. No gulls. No wind.
He stumbled from his bed to the top of the tower, hands trembling. And from the cliffside, he saw it—out there, far in the waters beyond the Black Shoals.
A ripple. No—more than that. A fracture.
The ocean shimmered with red lines, like veins beneath the surface. And something vast moved beneath it, brushing against the ocean floor. Ancient stone monoliths, long buried in coral and myth, rose from the depths.
And there, etched across their surface—sigils that pulsed like hearts.
Rhosven turned and fled down the tower stairs. He never reached the bottom. His body, days later, was found torn and half-mad, clutching a message burned into a torn canvas:
"The Deep God stirs. One seal undone, and now the sea breathes his name."
---
Before the road took him beneath the whispering trees, Casmir stood outside the ruined gates of Belhallow, the girl sleeping soundly in the saddle with her back rested on his chest. The moon cast long shadows across the shattered stones, and the wind held the silence of aftermath.
Maera approached from the town's square, her boots crunching gravel. Her once-dauntless strides had withered into a slow gentle walk— each step, dulled mostly by age. She stopped beside his horse and looked up at him, eyes weary but unflinching.
"You never were good at farewells," she said.
Casmir offered a faint smile. "No. I always thought I'd see them again."
She snorted softly. "Liar. I've known you too long to fall for that. Still the same brooding bastard, hoping never to cross the same path twice."
He looked down, brushing a loose strand of red hair from his face. "Some things don't change."
"No," she said. "But people do. You're protecting her. Whatever that thing was becoming… you marked her. Freed her."
"I need her to find someone," Casmir replied, voice even.
Maera shook her head slowly. "That's not the only reason."
He didn't answer. His eyes flicked back to the girl curled against the saddle. She shifted in her sleep but didn't wake.
"You care for her," Maera said.
A long silence. Wind stirred the ash along the path.
"I worry for what she is," Casmir murmured at last. "I saw the seal break. I felt it tear across the spine of this world. This… was only the beginning."
Maera looked to the darkened horizon, where dawn had not yet dared to rise. "I'll contact Aelinthra. Someone has to know about her. You go—find a place. If there's still one safe out there for her."
He nodded once, solemn. "You would've made a better saint."
"Too late for wishes now," she said with a tired smile. "I'm glad it was you instead."
Then she turned and returned into her small inn.
He watched her until the door clicked shut behind her. A faint smile flickered across his lips, then vanished as he gave his horse a gentle nudge.
They moved forward, slipping into the hush of the forest where moonlight danced through whispering leaves. The girl lay against his chest—light, fragile, and warm. Her breath came soft and even now. The fevered chill had faded, and the dark presence that once clung to her was gone.
And yet, the saint could not rest.
He felt it. Something wrong in the world.
It was subtle—like a dish slightly out of place on a grand feast table. But for someone like Casmir, who had long walked in the wake of curses, demons, and death, it was undeniable.
He remembered the girl's words in the castle. Her voice warped with prophecy, filled with things no possessed soul could have known. Her warning—that is the gate.
He looked down at her face. Peaceful. Innocent.
But for how long?
His hands gripped the reins tighter. Somewhere along the road, he would need to find a sage or an archivist—someone who knew more about the first mages.
And if what he feared was true... if the seal they had shattered was truly as Maera and the girl had said—only one of four...
Then the world was racing toward a reckoning.
And she might be the key to stopping it.
Or unleashing it.
They reached the lowlands by midday, the forest giving way to a windswept plain. Smoke coiled faintly in the distance—campfires from scattered settlements, perhaps. He avoided them. The girl needed rest, and they needed anonymity more than they needed shelter.
That night, Casmir made camp beneath a twisted birch on the edge of a river. The stars watched silently overhead, distant fires from a colder sky. He laid her gently beside the flames, wrapped in a woolen cloak, and checked the faint scars on her arms where the possession marks had once burned. They had faded, but not vanished. Something ancient lingered in her blood, something deeper than mere corruption.
He drew a circle of salt and obsidian dust around their camp, a habit he had learned from his years in the Xandic Order. Not all nightmares respected borders, but most feared symbols. Especially those marked with truth.
When he slept, his dreams were fractured.
A vast desert of bone. A tower of flesh. A door opening in the sky.
And from it poured whispers—not words, but sensations. Fear. Hunger. Grief so raw it had claws.
At the center of it all, four chains—cracking one by one.
And a voice that belonged to no one he had ever met, yet felt terrifyingly familiar:
"SHE IS THE VESSEL OF THE DEEP. The ALTARS STIRS. WILL YOU PROTECT HER... OR SILENCE HER?"
He awoke before dawn.
The girl was already sitting upright, staring into the fire. Her eyes—gray, but tinted now with a strange hue—reflected the flame like mirrors.
"You were talking in your sleep," she said softly.
Casmir stiffened. "What did I say?"
"Names. None I recognized. One of them was mine."
He approached cautiously. "Do you remember anything from the keep? From your past?"
She hesitated. "Only... pieces. A woman made of light. A tower wrapped in chains. And... a voice. It told me something was sleeping behind the doors of this world. That I was born marked. That I would bring the end."
Casmir lowered himself beside her. "You might."
"Am I cursed?" she asked.
He shook his head slowly. "No. You're chosen."
"That's not better," she whispered.
"No," Casmir said. "It isn't."