The cathedral had stood for centuries, a symbol of divine order. Its spires once pierced the clouds. Now, they lay shattered, broken like the illusions of purity they once upheld.
Lysander moved through the ruins with purpose. Each step echoed off the marble floor, now cracked and blackened. Elara followed, her cloak dusted with ash.
"This is where it began," he said, kneeling beside the altar.
"Began?" Elara asked. "The Blight?"
"No. The cover-up."
He pried open the altar's base, revealing a sigil—burned into stone, once radiant, now fractured.
"It's a seal," Lysander said. "Or was."
Elara stared at the broken lines. "What was it holding?"
"An oath," Lysander replied. "Sworn by the first king to the Soul Weave itself. A pact of harmony, memory, and balance."
"But someone broke it."
"Someone needed to rewrite history."
As they stood, wind whispered through the broken windows. The cathedral moaned, almost mournfully.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows.
An old man. Robed. Eyes milky with blindness—but glowing faintly.
"You walk on sacred ash," he rasped.
Elara stepped forward. "Who are you?"
"I was the Keeper. Until the oath shattered. Now I am witness to what comes after."
Lysander approached. "Tell me what you saw."
The Keeper touched the broken sigil. "The Weave recoiled. Truth twisted. Memories vanished."
"You remember them?"
"I remember what was forgotten."
Lysander's eyes narrowed. "The Prophet?"
"A vessel," the Keeper whispered. "But not the first. There were others. Each one worse."
"What do they want?" Elara asked.
"To become gods."
The Keeper pressed a parchment into Lysander's hand. "This is the original sigil. Redraw it. Reclaim what was lost."
Then he crumbled—literally—turning to dust, carried away by the wind.
Elara stared. "Was he even real?"
Lysander didn't answer. He looked at the parchment.
Lines. Symbols. A design both ancient and impossibly complex.
He smiled faintly.
"A new game begins."