The decision to follow Alabaster hung heavy in the air, a dangerous gamble born of desperation rather than trust. Alabaster moved like a wisp of smoke ahead of them, his dark robes blending with the deepening shadows of the ruins. Akero, Nea, and Kael followed at a cautious distance, their senses sharpened to the edge. The path he led them on was not a physical trail, but a subtle weaving through the skeleton of the city, toward the jagged mountains rising in the east.
As they traveled, far from the light of sun or moon, another gathering was being held.
---
The air in the Citadel of the End was still and cold, like the void between the stars. It was a fortress spun from despair and shadows, hidden in a fold of reality known only to its master. The chamber was vast, its architecture a nightmare of sharp angles and flowing obsidian, lit by a pale, sickly green glow that seemed to seep from the very walls.
Around a table of polished black bone, figures of immeasurable power had gathered. The air thrummed with their latent energy.
At the head of the table sat a presence so immense and terrible that it was difficult to look upon directly — a fusion of absolute darkness and dreadful intent. This was the Unknown.
To his right stood a man-mountain, clad in jagged crimson armor that seemed forged from crystallized blood. His eyes burned with a violent red light, and the very air around him tasted of copper and iron. This was Vorath, Lord of Blood, Rank 1. Master of Hematomancy.
To the Unknown's left reclined a figure of deceitful elegance. Lucius, Lord of Manipulation, Rank 2. His features were sharp and cruel, his smile a blade's edge. He radiated a psychic pressure that made the mind feel unclean — a master of psychological domination and subtle control.
A third figure lingered nearby, running his hand across the surface of the table. Wherever his fingers passed, the bone rippled and reshaped into intricate, horrifying designs before settling back to its original form. This was Lex, Lord of Matter, Rank 3. His command over the physical world was absolute.
And then there was the fourth. He did not stand with the others but loitered at the edge of the light, a hole in the fabric of the room. His form was humanoid yet indistinct, a swirling mass of pure darkness. No features could be seen, only the impression of immense, sorrowful power and a crown of twisted, shadowed horns. This was Nyx, the First Shadowborn, the Hollow Husk of Taros.
"The Wall of the Dead has fallen," the Unknown's voice was not sound but a vibration that shook the soul itself. "Carlos no longer exists. His failure is final."
Lucius's smile widened. "A minor setback. He showed promise. A pity."
"More than a setback," Vorath's voice was a deep rumble, like stone grinding. "It reveals weakness. Potential we underestimated."
"It also reveals a traitor," the Unknown's focus shifted, and the temperature dropped further. "Alabaster has cast aside his oath. He seeks redemption in the ruins of the past. He leads the children of light."
A ripple of contempt passed through the lords. Lex finally raised his eyes from the table. "The Shadow-Seeker was always sentimental. A flaw he never overcame."
Vorath remained silent, considering. Lucius waved a hand dismissively. "Every tool has its limit. He has reached his. The solution is simple. We shall break him — and the whelps he leads."
The Unknown's will fixed upon the silent figure in the shadows. "Nyx."
The Shadowborn stirred, an aura of dark anticipation spreading from him.
"You remember the Old Sanctuary. You remember those who bound you. Go. Take a band of the newer Shadowborn. Cleanse the place. Destroy the Seeker. Bring me the boy with the time-spark. The others are… expendable."
Nyx gave no verbal reply. A deep, solemn bow was his only answer before he dissolved into a haze of darkness that seeped into the floor and vanished.
"The Lord of Blood will reinforce the western approaches," the Unknown commanded. "The Lord of Matter will fortify this citadel. The Lord of Manipulation will weave a net of whispers and lies everywhere he can. Let them drown in paranoia before we ever reveal our true strength."
With their orders given, the figures departed, leaving the Unknown alone in his cold, silent hall, already planning ten steps ahead of the pawns now moving across his board.
---
Meanwhile, Alabaster and the trio reached the foot of the mountains. A narrow, hidden pass, veiled by powerful illusion magic that Alabaster carefully unraveled, led them to a concealed valley. And there, pressed against the heart of the mountain, stood the Old Sanctuary.
It was no grand temple but a low, broad structure of pure white stone that seemed to glow with its own inner light, despite the grime and wear of ages. An immense, intricate seal — a fusion of Miriette's heart-runes and Yvaris's binding symbols — was stamped into the great stone doors, pulsing with a steady rhythm.
"The barrier still holds," Alabaster whispered, his voice filled with reverence and grief. "Their sacrifice endures."
It took their combined effort to find a breach in the magical defense — a fracture not in the spell itself but in the mountain rock beside it, leading to a collapsed rear entrance. They squeezed through and found themselves in a dark, dusty corridor.
The interior was a tomb of lost glory. The halls were filled with shattered statues of the Six Guardians, their faces erased. But Alabaster moved with the certainty of memory, guiding them deeper into the heart of the sanctuary, to massive doors sealed with chains of solid light.
By sheer force of will, Akero managed to still the energy flowing through the chains for a precious few seconds, long enough for Kael to shatter the lock with a well-aimed jet of fire.
The doors swung open.
The chamber within was small and circular. And there, in the center, bound by manacles of swirling, hardened darkness that seemed to drink the light from the air, were two figures.
A man and a woman. The man was broad-shouldered, his head bowed, but faint sparks of fire still glimmered in his crimson hair. The woman was unearthly in her beauty, even in her ragged state, her hair like spun sunlight, her skin faintly luminous. Their eyes were closed, their breathing shallow, as though trapped in deep stasis.
"Kaelion," Alabaster gasped, his voice breaking with emotion. "Serin."
As though their names were a key, the prisoners' eyes flickered open. The man, Kaelion, blinked, his gaze first fixing on the light spilling from the doorway, then on the figures standing there. His eyes swept over Akero, Nea, and Kael with confusion before locking on Alabaster.
The confusion vanished, replaced by pure, unfiltered fury that made the very air grow hot.
"You." The word was a crack of flame, a promise of violence. Kaelion strained against his shadow-forged bonds, the fire in his hair flaring violently. "How dare you set foot in this place, traitor? You who stood aside as he slew Taros! You who fought for him!"
Serin's eyes, deep and calming blue, opened more slowly. There was no rage in them, only an endless, sorrowful grief. "Alabaster," she said, her voice like a distant chime. "Why have you come? To finish his work?"
"I am not with him!" Alabaster insisted, stepping back from the palpable heat of their hatred. "Not anymore. I seek redemption. I brought them," he pointed to the trio, "they are the new hope of the world. We must free you!"
"Free us?" Kaelion laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. "These chains are not of metal or magic you understand. They are woven from his will itself. Pure shadow. They cannot be broken, only endured."
The trio stepped forward, quickly explaining — tales of Carlos, of Vorath's ultimatum, of the scrolls and their quest.
Serin listened, her sorrowful gaze drinking in Akero's time-spark, Kael's fire, Nea's light. A fragile thread of hope pierced her despair. "The world still fights," she whispered. "Then there is time."
Suddenly, Alabaster stiffened. His head snapped up, his pale face turning even whiter. His gift — Shadow-Seeking, the sense of shadows' flow and pursuit — screamed a warning.
"He is here," Alabaster whispered, his voice taut with fear. "Tharos… Nyx. He has found us."
From the dark halls beyond the sealed chamber, a chorus of faint, rasping shrieks began to echo, growing louder with each passing second. The sound of claws scraping stone, of formless shadows taking shape.
Then came a deeper silence, as a singular, horrifying presence filled the corridor outside. A shadow deeper and older than all others appeared in the doorway, its crown of twisted horns scraping the frame.
The First Shadowborn had arrived, and behind him, a tide of lesser Shadowborn poured into the chamber, their empty eyes fixed on the Guardians — and their would-be saviors.