The return passage through the fold happened in a flash. The tones echo was diminishing and the trail was disintegrating in their wake. They plunged out of the haze and into Loreleis foul-smelling hab-pod collapsing in a pile, on the ground.
The siren had vanished. Only her shimmering scale lay on the bed.
Sierra sprang up immediately inspecting the door. "All clear. She ran off."
Morgan winced, massaging his temple. "My mind feels like it's been tossed in a blender on the 'metaphysical' setting."
Cassiathon rose, gripping the scale tightly. The Weavers message resonated within him. A fresh decree. A dreadful, yet stunning strain. He sensed its burden the duty it imposed. He was more, than a weapon or a child. He embodied a principle.. Principles drew obstacles.
They navigated back through the Rustwell the clamor now serving as a comforting touchstone of stability. However upon arriving at the bazaar they discovered a crowd assembled, alive, with anxious anticipation.
At the heart of the disturbance stood a viewscreen, typically reserved for trade announcements. It was presently showcasing a imperial broadcast.
Vernia Vouw, the Demon Queen reclined upon a throne crafted from bone and obsidian. She was. Fearsome, her aura radiating through the screen brimming with undeniable charisma and strength. Next, to her Blaise, a towering figure of quiet formidable threat.
"My offspring of the restored realm " Vernias tone blended steel with sweetness. "The era of concealment has ended. The era of shrinking in wreckage is, behind us. We present a daybreak. Yet daybreak demands the purging of the remaining darkness."
The picture changed. It presented a created yet precise depiction of Cassiathons mountain refuge.
"We are, in search of a missing fragment of our soul. A singular entity imprisoned unwillingly by the grip of inertia and dread. His name is Cassiathon Abysswalker." Her gaze appeared to pierce through the screen spotting him amidst the Rustwell gathering. "To you my child I repeat: return home. Your strength is meant for the future, not the tomb."
The picture changed more. It depicted not a legion. A lone streamlined air-borne vessel approaching a site, on the map—the Ashen Plains survivor refuge. The same one Cassiathon had rescued by closing the rift.
". To anyone who attempts to block him from his fate " Vernia declared, her grin becoming keen "be aware of the consequences. We do not wage war against the powerless.. We will reveal the toll of rebellion. Within two days the community called Hopes Respite will be cleansed. Not razed. Transformed. They shall become part of our regime by choice or force. This is not a warning. It is unavoidable."
She inclined her body forward. "Journey, to the Ashen Plains, Cassiathon. Confront me. Seize your inheritance.. Witness the final glimmers of the ancient world being softly irrevocably extinguished. The decision as ever belongs to you."
The broadcast concluded.
The Rustwell audience burst into conjecture.
Cassiathon remained motionless. The Queen had skirted the mountain skirted his father. She had recognized his vulnerability, the very one the Weaver had recently mentioned: his anchors. His compulsion to safeguard.
She wasn't assaulting his residence. She was presenting him with an option he had no way to decline on a battleground of her making. She compelled the encounter on her conditions leveraging the ethics his family had ingrained in him as the lure.
Morgan seized his arm. "Cass. This is a trap. The clearest trap ever seen in the history of traps."
"I understand," Cassiathon murmured, his tone empty. He glanced at the scale in his grasp toward the route before him no longer navigating mystical layers but traversing a desolate expanse en route, to an anticipated confrontation.
The Queen had issued her invitation. And he had no choice but to RSVP.