Light cuts through the ashfall. Thin golden lines threading between towers of black stone and rune-lit balconies. The Kingdom of Emberstone hums like a beast stirring — iron gates creaking open, spell-forges exhaling steam, banners fluttering with old blood and newer lies.
Outside the Emberflame Inn, the sky is a mix of smoke and sunrise — beautiful in that "we almost died last night" kind of way.
Ren sits on the steps, a steaming cup of gods-know-what in hand. Something herbal. Something disappointing.
His eyes track the sky. He's not looking for omens. Just... trying to feel something.
Then comes the voice.
Gravity (System Voice):
"You are not needed here anymore. Your delay weakens your trajectory."
Beat.
"You came to find the source. Not to rest in the embers of others' ruin."
Ren closes his eyes. Sighs. Then mutters into his cup:
"Yeah, well. The bed was warm and nobody tried to stab me in my sleep. That's rare for me."
But he knows. Gravity's right.
The Crestflare truth? The Ashrunner? The real fracture in this dimension?
Not here.
Time to fucking move.
A moment at the city gates. Blaze yells something about "cowardly bastards letting him leave without breakfast."
Frost just watches. Silent approval.
Even Snarksteel is quiet — for five full seconds.
Then Ren vanishes into the warp path. Aetherium Core flickering. Gravity guiding.
Destination: Cael'Nareth – The Endless Bloom
Because if nobody in Emberflame has the truth, maybe the elves — those timeless keepers of reality's oldest secrets — remember what the world is trying to forget.
First sensation? The silence. Not dead silence — alive silence.
The kind where wind carries whispers, and every leaf seems to watch you.
The forest canopy stretches miles into the sky, glowing faintly with Verdant Pulse — ancient, living magic that sings to itself in tones only old things understand.
Ren steps out of the warp trail and into a living city carved into trees the size of small mountains — the city of Nhar'lune.
Bridges of light. Water suspended midair like veins. Trees that bend to let people pass.
No gates. No guards. Just awareness.
Ren approaches a trio of locals — two elves and a childlike fae-spirit flickering in and out of phase. They stand at a marketplace woven from vines and spell-thread, selling "time-root tea" and "memory moss."
Ren:
"Hey. Got a weird one for you. I'm looking for a Crestflare. Or a walking apocalypse named Ashrunner. Either ring a bell?"
The older elf looks at him like he just asked where to buy gravity. The fae-spirit giggles and phases through a tree.
Elf Merchant:
"You speak of power as if it were currency. Crestflares are not ours to name. And 'Ashrunner'... is not a word I will invite into this grove."
Ren:
"So... that's a no?"
The younger elf sighs. Leans in.
Young Elf:
"Only the Seer-Circle would even entertain such a question. And even then, they speak in riddles."
Ren:
"Oh good. I love riddles. Especially when the world's on fire."
He leaves with nothing but directions — and the weight of the forest pressing on his ribs.
Ren walks alone through the glowing forest paths, feeling the magic shift around him like it's sniffing his blood.
Aetherium Core (quietly):
"This realm was shaped for permanence. You were not."
Beat.
"And yet, it sees you."
He doesn't reply.
The path ahead curves toward a towering grove where the Seer-Circle dwells — and if anyone might know what Crestflare truly is... or how Ashrunner keeps killing them...
…it'll be the ones who dream in root-language and sleep in star-silk.