Beneath the thousandfold layers of existence, where stars bled their final light and time itself crawled on shattered knees, there pulsed a singular rhythm—a heart not born of flesh or fire, but forged from the breath of the First Creation.
The Worldheart.
It slumbered within the Caer Vyndor Depths, an ancient nexus of all leylines that had once fed the soul of the cosmos. Millennia ago, Zeirion had sealed it away—not to protect it from the world, but to protect the world from it.
And now, he had returned to its gates.
Stone towers of impossible height coiled into themselves, etched with runes that resisted understanding. The wind howled in forgotten dialects, not quite screams, not quite songs. As Zeirion stepped into the breach—Aralya at his side—the seal recognized him.
A groan like a dying god echoed across the realm.
The gates parted.
Inside, the chamber of the Worldheart pulsed like the chest of a slumbering titan. Vast rivers of liquid aether surged through crystalline veins, their flow illuminating walls made of compressed reality. At the center hovered a sphere of light—equal parts divine, monstrous, and unshaped. It was not
beautiful, yet all beauty stemmed from it.
Aralya's voice was hushed. "It still remembers you."
"I left a part of myself behind," Zeirion murmured. "A choice. A truth."
He stepped forward, and the Worldheart responded—not with resistance, but hunger. It remembered the ruler who once commanded it to silence the Endless War. It remembered the sovereign who demanded balance at any cost. And it offered.
A pulse of radiance exploded outward, washing over Zeirion. Visions poured into him—visions of collapsing realms, of kings kneeling in golden ash, of his own face reflected in the tears of a dying universe.
He did not flinch.
Instead, he whispered one word.
"Awaken."
The Worldheart cracked.
A single filament of essence, pure and untainted, extended from it—and entered Zeirion's chest.
He gasped, just once. Then his back straightened.
His cloak rose without wind. His hair, touched by starlight, flowed like ink in eternity. And around him, the chamber knelt.
Aralya watched him, her eyes unreadable.
"Zei… is this what you want?"
His gaze, now brighter than before, met hers.
"No," he said. "It's what I must become… before I can choose what I want."
Then, he reached out—and placed his palm on the Worldheart.
With that single act, every leyline in existence thrummed. Mountaintops cracked. Oceans surged. Sealed tombs cried out as their oaths were undone.
And in distant temples, forgotten by time, ancient watchers stirred from dreamless sleep.
Meanwhile, in the Thirteenth Vein...
Far from the chamber, the veil of space rippled violently. The Thirteenth Vein, a cursed thread between existence and oblivion, began to burn.
From within it emerged a creature that did not belong to any known realm—a Warden of the Original Order. Its body was forged from paradox and flame, its mind untouched by morality.
It felt the Worldheart stir.
"Correction required," it said, in a voice made of implosion.
And it moved—toward Zeirion.
But it was already too late.
Back in Caer Vyndor...
Zeirion turned from the now-stilled Worldheart. The essence of the realms danced beneath his skin, neither burning nor breaking. For the first time since his awakening, he felt something else.
Hope.
Aralya reached for him, and he met her hand.
"What now?" she asked.
He looked upward—beyond sky, beyond dimension.
"To reforge what was broken… I must first walk among the ruins."