It came at midnight.
Not a sound. Not a messenger.
But a dream that felt more real than waking.
Darien stood in a place without sky or ground—only endless black stone stretching in every direction. At its center rose a pillar of obsidian, and upon it, the cloaked figure sat, motionless.
The hood fell back.
No face.
Only a smooth mask of black stone… cracked down the middle, glowing violet from within.
"You walk the path, Darien Valtharis," the voice echoed—not in his ears, but in his bones. "But you walk it blind."
Darien drew no weapon. "Who are you?"
"I am what remains when light forgets its purpose. I am the echo of balance unmade."
"You think you wield power. You do not. You borrow pain."
The figure raised a hand. Around them, the black stone cracked—and from the fissures rose hundreds of figures: elves, their skin gray, eyes hollow, mouths open in silent screams.
Darien recognized them.
Farmers from Virelle. Scouts from the Ridge. Civilians from Orion's Gate.
"This is your future," the voice whispered. "Not victory. Not salvation. Only more Hollow-Born… until your race forgets what light ever was."
Darien's ash-hand trembled. "I fight to save them."
"Then stop fighting."
"Join us. Become the bridge. Let the Unlight flow through you—not as curse, but as cleansing fire. Together, we will remake this world… without weakness."
For a heartbeat, Darien saw it:
A world without fear. Without death.
Elves stronger than ever—unbound by the Tree's fragile grace.
Then he saw the truth beneath:
Their eyes empty. Their songs gone. Their children born silent.
"No," he said.
The vision shattered.
He woke gasping in his chamber, sweat cold on his brow.
On the floor beside him, drawn in ash that hadn't been there before, were three words:
"LAST CHANCE. SURRENDER."
At dawn, he brought the message to the council.
Lira paled when she saw the ash-words. "It's not just a threat. It's a binding spell. If you refuse… they'll accelerate the corruption."
Prince Kaelin slammed his fist on the table. "We don't negotiate with monsters!"
"But what if it's not a monster?" Elyar said quietly. "What if it's… what we become if we keep using the Unlight?"
All eyes turned to Darien.
He held up his ash-hand. "I won't join them. But I also won't hide what I saw. They don't want to destroy us. They want to replace us—with something obedient."
Thorin growled, "Then we kill the figure. End it."
"And if killing it unleashes whatever sleeps beneath the Black Peaks?" Malrik countered. "The dwarves warned us: worse things stir below."
Silence.
King Aerion spoke at last. "Darien… can you find where this figure truly is?"
Darien closed his human hand into a fist. "The shard I took… it still pulses. It's a key. And I think I know where it leads."
"To the Heart of Void," Lira whispered.
That night, Darien prepared to leave.
Not with an army. Not with fanfare.
Just himself, the dwarven axe, and the stolen shard.
Prince Kaelin stopped him at the gate.
"You're walking into a trap."
"Maybe," Darien said. "But if I don't go, they'll come for Lyothara next. And I'd rather meet the storm… than wait for it to drown us."
Kaelin handed him a small vial of golden liquid. "From the Tree's last pure sap. In case you need to remember who you are."
Darien took it—and for the first time since the ritual, he felt warmth.
But as he rode east, the vial grew cold in his pocket.
And the drums began again.
Not counting down.
Calling him home.