That night, the world weighed heavy.
The ancient temple had fallen silent again, the vines curling softly over its broken stones as twilight deepened into a cold, moonless black. A small fire crackled in the center of their makeshift camp, its light barely touching the surrounding ruins.
Kaelred and Thae'Zirak dozed lightly nearby. Malakar, ever watchful, sat cross-legged in the shadows, violet flames dimming within his hollow sockets, his mind lost somewhere deep within lich-ritual meditations.
Argolaith lay back on the smooth slab of an overturned pillar, his arms behind his head, staring up into a sky streaked with fading stars.
He closed his eyes.
Sleep took him swiftly, like a falling blade.
At first, there was nothing.
No light. No warmth.
Only the slow, heavy beat of his own heart echoing through an endless void.
Then—a whisper.
A soundless voice threading itself through the marrow of his bones, older than language, older than time.
"You have come far, Seedbearer…"
