The green sprout glowed faintly on the black stone—tiny, fragile, but undeniably alive.
Around it, hundreds of orcs knelt in silence, their violet eyes fixed not on Darien, but on the sprout itself. As if they remembered, deep in their hollowed souls, what life once was.
Aelarion's voice echoed in Darien's mind—not through the air, but through the ash in his veins.
"Kill the vessel. Break the Heart. The war ends tonight."
Darien tightened his grip on the dwarven axe. "And you?"
"I remain sealed. Forever. But my people live."
He looked at the orc wearing Aelarion's face—its bone-carved features twitching with silent agony. This was no monster. It was a prison made of pain.
Then he looked at the sprout.
One drop of pure sap… and life returned where none should grow.
Lira's words came back to him: "Balance demands sacrifice."
But what was balance?
Ending suffering by preserving purity?
Or healing the wound, even if it left a scar?
The cloaked vessel stepped forward, hands open, unarmed.
"Do it," it whispered in Aelarion's voice. "I have waited a thousand years for release."
Darien raised the axe.
The orcs did not move.
He could end it now. One strike. The shards would shatter. The orcs would collapse. Lyothara would be safe.
But as the axe hovered, he saw not an enemy—but a reflection.
A future where he, too, might become a vessel of pain… sealed away for daring to seek balance.
His arm trembled.
Then, slowly, he lowered the axe.
"No."
Aelarion's true voice filled the cave, trembling with hope.
"You choose the harder path."
Darien turned to the rune-cage. "How do I free you?"
"Break the three seals," Aelarion said. "One with steel. One with truth. One with sacrifice."
Darien struck the first rune with the dwarven axe—it shattered like glass.
For the second, he placed his human hand on the cage and spoke:
"I am Darien Valtharis. I walk the Ashen Path not for power… but for my people."
The second rune dimmed.
For the third, he knew what he must do.
He took the vial of golden sap—the last pure gift from the Tree—and poured it onto the cage's base.
The liquid hissed, burning his ash-hand where it touched. Pain lanced up his arm—but the final rune cracked.
The cage dissolved.
Aelarion floated free.
For a moment, light and shadow swirled around him like twin serpents. Then he descended, touching the ground for the first time in a millennium.
He knelt and cupped the green sprout in his hands.
"Thank you," he said softly.
Outside, the orcs began to stir—not with violence, but confusion. Their violet eyes flickered, then cleared to brown, green, red—their true colors returning.
But deep beneath the mountain, something else stirred.
A rumble. Not of rock.
Of chains snapping.
Aelarion's face paled.
"No… not yet. The Deep Seal—"
Before he could finish, the ground split open.
From the fissure rose not fire, not monsters—but darkness given form: a towering figure of void, with eyes like dying stars.
"You broke the cage, little brother," it boomed. "Now I walk free."
Aelarion turned to Darien, eyes wide with dread.
"That is not me. That is what they sealed beneath me. The true Heart of Void."
Darien drew his axe. "What is it?"
"The First Hollow," Aelarion whispered. "Born when the world first knew fear. And it hungers for light."
The entity turned its gaze toward the east—toward Lyothara.
And began to walk.
In the distance, the drums started again.
But this time, they were not counting down.
They were marching.