Far beyond the known skies, where suns burned without light and time coiled like a serpent devouring its own tail, there blazed a solitary inferno—the Eternal Pyre.
It was no natural fire. It predated stars, mocked death, and laughed at gods. It had once been tamed by only one hand in the whole of existence. That hand now reached for it again.
Zeirion stood at the edge of the Abyss of Wyrmsong, where reality ended and the Pyre began. Beside him, Aralya stood still, her expression unreadable. The very space around them wept and twisted, distorting with every heartbeat of the ancient flame ahead.
"This place was locked away after you fell," she said, her voice quiet. "Even the flame forgot its name."
"It never had one," Zeirion replied. "It simply was."
He lifted his palm toward the abyss.
The fire roared—not like wind through leaves, but like a god sobbing in terror.
Aralya turned to him. "Are you sure?"
He didn't look at her. "To ascend beyond fate, I must reclaim all I cast aside. Power alone is nothing. But power tempered by will… that is destiny shaped."
He stepped forward.
The flame surged, recognizing him.
Suddenly, the skies above tore open. From that rift poured winged sentinels—constructs of judgment from the Astral Arbiters, the last ancient order sworn to ensure Zeirion would never rise again.
Ten of them.
Ten echoes of divine law.
Each wielded weapons forged from celestial principle—blades of judgment, spears of restraint, and haloes that could cage eternity.
They descended with radiant fury.
Aralya's eyes narrowed. "They're faster than before."
"They've been preparing," Zeirion said. "Let them test their convictions."
The first Arbiter fell upon him, a lance screaming through air and thought alike. Zeirion raised his hand.
The lance shattered—not on armor, not on shield, but on presence.
The Arbiters hesitated. They felt it now—something older than their law.
Zeirion took another step toward the Pyre.
A second Arbiter lunged, twin swords singing of balance and decree.
This time, Aralya moved.
She blurred through space, moonlight trailing her form, and in one fluid motion, she disarmed the Arbiter and folded its light back into silence.
Eight remained.
"You could destroy them all," Aralya said as she landed beside him.
Zeirion's gaze did not waver. "They need not die. But they must remember."
He closed his eyes.
And then he spoke a word—one older than language, forbidden since the last Age of Unmaking.
The Arbiters froze.
Then bowed.
One by one, their forms dissolved into radiant dust and returned to the rift from which they came.
Only the Pyre remained.
Zeirion stepped into it.
Fire did not consume him—it obeyed.
It clung to his frame like armor, igniting the sigils across his body, crawling up his limbs like serpents of ancient energy.
His cloak burned black.
His eyes blazed crimson.
And in his right hand, Eclipsion reignited—now wreathed in flame not of destruction, but of will made manifest.
Aralya watched, lips parted slightly in awe.
The Sovereign was no longer returning.
He was becoming.
Meanwhile: In the Vault of Tethers
Far beyond the Pyre, in a chamber lined with sealed fate-threads, a blind priestess gasped.
"The Flame bends," she whispered. "He wears it again. The Threadbreaker lives."
All across the lands, dreamers awakened screaming.
And deep beneath the Court of Shadows, the Pale Mirror clutched his face, muttering through clenched teeth:
"He's remembering everything…"