Lior and Riven pressed on through the drifting sand, flames dancing low beneath Lior's gauntlet. The second column—its vine-and-feather relief half-eroded—rose before them like a silent sentinel. Blackened streaks of corruption clung to its base, and each gust of wind that rattled through the circle carried a hiss of malice.
Lior knelt and set a single ember into the carved vine. As the glow grew, Riven poured a ribbon of Wellspring light over the feather motif. Together their elements sang in harmony: the ember's heat coaxed fresh green sprigs from the stone, while the lantern's glow dissolved every lingering shadow. A soft sigh of clean wind rippled through the ruined basin, and the second column stood renewed.
From above came a sudden roar. Sand swirled into a funnel at the heart of the circle—and materialized into a Wind Wraith, its form woven from razor-edged gusts and the stolen breath of lost travelers. It lashed at them with a cyclone of dust and despair, intent on snuffing out their hard-won purification.
Riven raised the lantern, its white radiance parting the sable haze. Lior drew upon the ember's heart, flaring a ring of fire around the wraith's feet. The creature shrieked as flame met tempest, then recoiled into a whirlwind of sand. With a whispered incantation, Riven sent Wellspring light spiraling inward, disrupting the wraith's storm until it collapsed into a single plume of harmless breeze.
Ahead, the third column loomed. Before they could reach it, a distant whistle carried on the wind—Sylas's call. The Zephyr Sentinel descended in a swirl of gale, his feather aloft. "I sensed the storm's turning," he called, landing between them and the ruined pillar. "Let the wind guide our hands."
With Sylas's mastery, the trio approached the third relief. He coaxed a steady current through the vinework, clearing centuries of sand from its grooves, while Lior's ember reignited the feather-carvings in fiery ligatures. Riven swept the Wellspring's glow across the stone, knitting fresh life into every petal and plume. When the light dimmed, the third column stood whole and free of corruption.
Silence settled—and in that pause, Corwin's purifying waters spouted from a hidden fissure in the desert floor, the Tidal Sage arriving with a gentle wave at his back. "The poison clings to the air," he said, "but water binds every grain." He sprinkled droplets across the final basin, then knelt to call forth a small pool that gleamed silver. Bram's earthroot staff broke through the sandbank behind them, roots weaving into the stone until living wood framed the fourth relief.
Together—flame, wind, tide, and stone—they placed their tokens in the basin: Lior's ember, Sylas's feather, Corwin's water, Bram's staff-tip, and Riven's lantern glow uniting above. They intoned the vow in unison:
"By flame's spark and wind's song,
By tide's flow and stone's song,
We stand as one—our bonds made strong."
A pulse of white-hot light erupted from the basin, washing across the desert sands in an expanding halo. The four pillars gleamed, freed from the Cult's taint, and the Hall of Four Winds sang in four clear notes as the pure breeze carried their harmony across the wastes.
As the glow faded, the wind settled to a gentle, welcome breath. Lior exhaled, ash-gray dust drifting to the ground. Sylas grinned, tucking his feather away. Corwin cupped his hands to catch the residual droplets, and Bram's roots hummed with contentment beneath their feet.
Riven lifted his lantern. "The Hall is restored," he said. "These winds will carry hope—to every caravan and oasis—instead of fear."
Lior glanced to the horizon, where the sun climbed higher. "Let that promise guide the next leg of our journey."
And so, with the Hall of Four Winds cleansed at last, the Elemental Vanguards turned their faces eastward—ready to carry their unity into every corner of Aetherion's boundless realms.