The battlefield was no longer a battlefield.
It was ruin.
Scorched stone. Cracked skies. Shattered rivers.
Even the stars seemed to flicker in mourning.
The Elemental Gods fought still—but they were bleeding.
Not from wounds. From *purpose*.
Thamior had fallen to one knee, his arm shattered to ash. Elanora hovered above a sea of broken waves, her dress torn, her trident dull. Aurevyn no longer soared—his wings dragged behind him, sparking.
Vaelyra stood alone, her fire dimmed. Yet she did not fall.
She simply whispered, "We do not kneel. We burn."
But even her voice trembled.
Then it came.
A light—neither divine nor elemental. A light that had no master.
It erupted from the Cradle.
Not like fire. Like *remembrance*.
The heavens pulsed. The mountains echoed with a name not spoken for eras.
And far across the rift, the Supreme Monarchs opened their eyes.
Soltheon of Order. Myrielle of Balance. Kaelen of Chaos. Selvayn of Desire.
They had been guardians once.
They had failed once.
But now… they were called again.
And as the Elementals stared toward the light, a single thought echoed in every godly mind:
"If we are all here…
Then who… is being summoned?"