Three weeks after the collapse of Kar-Halgrun, the remaining Realms gathered at the Summit of Four Winds — a high plateau that touched the clouds, held aloft by ancient floating stones said to be carved by the first wind god. Here, where no realm held dominion, kings and queens spoke as equals — or so the tradition claimed.
Queen Alira of Terra arrived first, cloaked in moss and mourning. Behind her came the Windborne from Aeris — white-cloaked seers who did not walk, but hovered, lifted by silent gusts. They brought no army, only prophecy.
From the south, the Crimson Envoys of Ignis arrived on flame serpents, led by High Pyrelord Caelen Drevaris, whose eyes glowed like coals and whose armor smoked even in snow. He wore no crown, but none questioned his authority.
Last came the Tideborn of Aqua, gliding in on silver chariots over glistening watercraft. Their leader, Lady Nymira of the Deep Circle, had skin like pearl and a gaze cold as the deepest trench. She offered no greeting.
They gathered in the Skycircle, the central ring of stone that hovered in perfect balance — a miracle of elemental equilibrium.
Queen Alira was the first to speak.
"Kar-Halgrun has fallen. Vorlath, the First Calamity, has risen. You all felt it."
Caelen scoffed. "I felt a mountain die. I didn't see a monster. What proof do you bring, Queen of Trees?"
Alira stepped aside. Her guards brought forth a sealed urn of blackened ash. She unstoppered it, and the ash rose — not as dust, but as tendrils, forming a claw that hovered in the air.
Nymira flinched. "Corrupted essence."
The forests of Terra are sick," Alira said. "The earth is bleeding. The dwarves are dead. This is not a singular event. It is the beginning."
The Windborne seer, Aeridian, spoke then, voice like a flute on wind. "We have seen it in the currents. One calamity wakes another. Ten will rise. When the tenth falls, so shall the sky itself."
"You knew this?" Caelen growled.
"We dreamed it. But dreams are warnings, not weapons."
Caelen's temper flared. "Then I say this: let Terra burn. It is their stone that cracked. Let fire fight fire. Ignis will not waste soldiers chasing ghosts."
Alira's voice sharpened. "You mistake denial for safety. Vorlath moves. He will not remain buried. When he walks again, fire will not save you — it will obey him."
Caelen's smirk faltered.
Lady Nymira spoke at last. "Then what do you propose, Queen of Terra?"
Alira unrolled a map marked with ancient ley lines. "There are places in this world where the elemental currents still converge. Sacred sites. Wells of primal power. If we bind them with the old rites, we may slow the spread. Seal the cracks between realms. Contain what is coming."
Caelen shook his head. "Ancient magic. Half-forgotten songs. And who will perform these rites? Our ancestors?"
"No," Alira said. "Our champions."
There was silence.
Then Nymira sighed. "I will send one. One Tidebound, trained in the Deep Art."
Aeridian nodded. "We will choose a Skyreader."
Caelen's eyes burned. "If this fails, I will burn the rift myself. And if your people are in the way, Alira—"
"They won't be," she said.
The Pact of the Last Flame was formed.