Beneath the Veins of the World, where time had long refused to tread, there existed a place carved not by gods, but by something far older.
A sanctum forgotten by the heavens and sealed by Zeirion himself in the age before records—The Whispering Vault.
Now, its locks trembled.
The Vault Stirs
A ripple passed through the bedrock of creation, subtle yet immense. Across the Realms, those attuned to deeper truths awoke screaming, their dreams torn apart by voices they had never known—but always feared.
In the Obsidian Conclave, ancient seers tore out their own tongues.
In the Crystal Choir, the hymns faltered for the first time in eternity.
In the Tower of Sealed Names, the forgotten titles on the last stone began to flicker.
And deep below, beyond light and law, a single sigil broke open with a sigh.
The first of Seven Echoes had awakened.
Zeirion's Return to the Vault
Within the Garden Beyond Time, Zeirion stood silently before a shattered fountain. Aralya, luminous even in contemplation, watched as the water refused to flow.
She spoke first. "The Vault is crying."
Zeirion closed his eyes. "No. It is calling."
A pause stretched between them, but not in tension—in reverence.
"You sealed it with a piece of yourself," she reminded him gently. "To break it..."
"I know." His voice was stone—calm, absolute. "But if the First Echo stirs, the others will follow."
"And the last?"
Zeirion turned to her, his gaze hardening. "If the Seventh awakens, not even I can rewrite the end."
He extended his hand, and the air split.
Together, they stepped into the fracture.
Descent into the Forgotten
The passage opened into a chasm of stars, but these stars were wrong—cold, unmoving, whispering truths never meant to be known. Each step downward was heavier than the last, as if the laws of consequence waited here, patient and cruel.
Carvings along the obsidian walls bled silver. Aralya paused to touch one—a mural of Zeirion standing between a thousand celestial titans, his blade raised in defiance of them all.
"Even then... you chose to stand alone," she murmured.
Zeirion didn't look back. "I was the only one left to stand."
Further down, the whispers grew louder. They spoke in the voices of the dead, of unborn gods, of memories erased.
They reached the final gate.
A circle of seven locks stood before them, floating in air that did not move, etched with runes long erased from the world.
Zeirion stepped forward.
The first lock was already undone.
The Keeper of Echoes
From the darkness came a shape.
Not a beast.
Not a man.
A memory given flesh—the Keeper of Echoes.
It had no face, only shifting forms, woven from forgotten griefs and severed futures. Its voice was the sound of breaking oaths.
"You dare return."
Zeirion met its void gaze. "I never forgot."
"Then you remember what you gave up. What it cost. What still sleeps."
"I remember," Zeirion said. "And I remember what will wake if I don't act."
The Keeper's form shifted—showing Zeirion's past selves: the boy king, the tyrant, the god-slayer, the man who bled for peace.
"You were once many things. Now you are afraid."
"No," Zeirion said, his voice cutting through the Vault like lightning. "I am ready."
He stepped forward, and the second lock cracked.
The Vault shuddered.
Elsewhere: The Pale Mirror Watches
Far beyond, within a mirror that reflected no light, the being known as the Pale Mirror stood before a congregation of cloaked figures—his allies in the Court of Shadows.
"He's breaking the Vault," one rasped.
"Fool," hissed Lady Calverra. "Even he can't control what lies beyond the Fifth Echo."
But the Pale Mirror's smile was slow, venomous.
"That's exactly the point."
He turned away.
"Let him open it. Let him become what he sealed. And when he does... we won't need to destroy him."
"He will destroy himself."
The Second Lock
In the depths of the Vault, Zeirion bled.
It was not wound, but remembrance—the Vault demanded it. A fragment of his past, torn free and fed into the seal.
Aralya caught him as his knees buckled.
"You were never meant to bear this alone," she whispered.
"I wasn't supposed to live past the First War," he breathed.
The second lock shattered with a cry.
Behind it, a door slowly parted.
And beyond that door... something vast, ancient, and waiting inhaled for the first time in millennia.
Its voice was faint. But even as a whisper, it made the world tremble.
"...Zei..."
Aralya's eyes widened. "That voice—"
Zeirion's hand gripped Eclipsion tighter.
"I know," he said quietly. "I buried her with my own hands."