The moon hung low over the Arcanum's plateau, pale as ash. Mist wove through the ruins, curling around broken statues and fractured obelisks. Silence ruled not the absence of sound, but the expectation of it.
Aethric stepped into the center of the clearing, staff in hand, eyes closed. Nyra hesitated at the edge of the mist, watching him with a mixture of awe and dread.
"You cannot see them," Aethric said softly, "but they see you."
Nyra shivered. "Them?"
"The departed of the First Era," he replied. "Magi who touched the heights of creation… and paid for it."
He extended both hands, palms upward. The air thickened. Whispers first brushed at the edge of hearing fragments of voices, half-formed sentences, the echo of old spells long abandoned.
Nyra's chest tightened. She could feel the hum in her heart spike, her resonance pulling the spirits toward her.
"They're aware," she whispered. "Of me."
Aethric's eyes opened, glowing faintly in the moonlight. "Of all here, you are… the beacon."
The whispers grew louder, layering atop one another threads of conversation, debates, and laments spanning centuries. Yet Aethric did not panic. He listened. He sorted.
A spectral figure materialized first, a woman in tattered robes, sigils woven faintly into her fading form. Her eyes, though hollowed by death, burned with purpose.
"Archmage Solvaen," she said. Her voice echoed across multiple dimensions of sound. "The Hollow Sovereign's plan was set before the collapse. It was patience incarnate. Do you understand the depth?"
"I do," Aethric said calmly. "And I am acting accordingly."
More spirits emerged, rising from the mist: men and women, faces marked by ancient power, robes fluttering as though caught in wind from another world. Their presence pressed against the hierarchy of magic itself, old rules bending slightly to accommodate them.
"Do you see the threads?" asked another spirit. "Every move measured. Every ambition tested. Every generation, a pawn, even you, Archmage."
Aethric's gaze sharpened. "Not a pawn. An observer. And now a countermeasure."
The spirits swirled, whispering. Nyra could feel her resonance shift; she was no longer merely a student, nor an audience. She was woven into their counsel, part of a network that predated her birth.
One spirit stepped forward. Its voice resonated deeper than the others. "Child of latent power… know this: your presence awakens more than relics. You may tip the scale toward salvation or annihilation."
Nyra's eyes widened. "Me? How? I don't understand…"
Aethric placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "You will. Slowly. Carefully. But understand this: the Hollow Sovereign's ambitions are measured, relentless, and centuries old. Each action we take is part of a larger weave. You are now part of the weave."
The spirits began to fade, withdrawing into mist. One lingered longer, its ethereal hand brushing the air above the plinth where the Ancient Compass had rested.
"The first threads are moving," it whispered. "Be vigilant. The nodes are awakening."
And then it vanished.
Nyra fell to her knees, gasping. The hum inside her chest throbbed violently. The connection she felt to relics and layered magic had deepened, stretching her awareness beyond the limits of comprehension.
Aethric knelt beside her. "You are not ready," he said. "But you are no longer optional in this conflict."
Nyra swallowed, struggling to find words. "So… if I fail."
Aethric's eyes softened, but the weight of centuries remained. "If you fail, the world may never recover. If you succeed, you will remember this era again as one of balance. One choice. One life. That is the burden placed upon you."
Above them, the mist swirled. Faint sigils lingered as remnants of spirits' passage, warning, and counsel.
And somewhere, far beyond the Arcanum, a ripple in the dark hinted that the Hollow Sovereign had noticed the shift.
Not just in power.
Not just in relics.
But in her.
Spirits of First Era magi provide cryptic guidance, revealing that the Hollow Sovereign's plan spans centuries. Nyra's latent connection to ancient power positions her as the potential key to either the world's salvation or destruction. The stakes are personal, immediate, and irresistible.