The Rift shudders, its stone arch screaming like splintered bone. Ashfire bleeds into the sky, painting the battlefield in sick crimson light. I feel the air rip apart, each breath tasting like iron and dust.
Then it happens.
A claw—vast, jagged, and older than time itself—presses against the barrier from within. Veyrathuun stirs. His shadow stretches across the torn horizon, a god's birth-throes clawing to break free.
But the claw is not alone.
Beneath the fracture, something deeper moves. Not rage. Not will. Something slower, immeasurable, and terrible in its patience. Glyphs ignite beneath Dahlia's skin, screaming through my blood, through the marrow of every soul on the field. The words burn without language:
"Vel draethuun… moraa korr shael."
(The Witness rises. The new path binds.)
The arch cracks wider, spilling light that is no light at all. And within that abyssal glow, I see it—an eye.
Not Veyrathuun's.
Vaster. Endless. The lid peels open like continents tearing apart, and in its gaze lies a weight that even gods cannot carry.
The Witness has opened its eyes.
The Creator of the gods. The one who carved Veyrathuun himself from the marrow of eternity. A Titan forgotten because memory could not bear it.
Around me, armies stagger. Ironsworn, Hollow remnants, Bloodsong Choir fanatics—all freeze as if struck blind. The Prophet drops to his knees. Even Damon's breath stills beside me.
And I—Dahlia Moon, branded and bound—I feel the Titan watching me. Not as a soldier. Not as prey. But as a tether, as if my skin is the parchment upon which it will write the world anew.
And above the battlefield, Veyrathuun's claw still scrapes forward.
Two awakenings. Two hungers. One void.
---
The shuddering Rift breathes a pulse that knocks me to my knees. Ashfire spatters across the ruined earth, sizzling into black scars. Dahlia collapses in front of me, her body arching backward as though seized by invisible chains. Glyphs rip like molten threads through her skin, etching across her arms, her collarbone, her chest—lines of living fire binding her veins in light.
I reach for her, but the instant my palm grazes her wrist, the burn sears through me. I jerk back with a hiss. Her flesh isn't flesh—it's scripture. My fingertips are branded with symbols I cannot read, marks that vanish as soon as I blink.
Her lips part. The voice that emerges isn't Dahlia's. It isn't even mortal.
"Shael draethuun… kel morra velth…"
(The Witness bleeds… the flame seals the path…)
Her chest convulses with each word, glyphs tightening, embedding themselves deeper. She coughs blood, yet the sound is like bells struck in a temple older than stone.
"Veyrathuun dal korr… sil'ven thora shaal…"
(The chained one stirs… the prison cracks in shadow…)
I try again to hold her, to anchor her body against the ground, but her touch brands me anew—living runes crawl up my arms before peeling away in smoke. My strength means nothing against this fire.
Her eyes roll white, then blaze with the same voidlight dripping from the arch.
"Kel draeshun… moraa shaelth… da'vel nurra threnn…"
(The Witness wakes… the bond seals… the chosen breaks…)
The battlefield around us is no longer battlefield. Every soldier, every beast, every dying thing has stilled, transfixed by her scream. Even the claw pressing through the Rift falters, as though the awakening of its master's master—the true Titan, the Witness—commands silence.
Her body thrashes one last time, then stills, but not with peace. The glyphs burn steady now, alive, refusing to fade. Dahlia Moon is no longer only Dahlia—she is something marked, something rewritten by the eye that is opening beyond the Rift.
---
The chamber burned with fracturing glyphlight, Dahlia writhing against Damon's grip, her body split between mortal sinew and the crawling ink of the Witness's mark. The Ironsworn reeled back in terror, but Serathion strode through them like a blade through reeds, his voice booming with righteous venom.
"She is no longer one of us," he thundered, eyes searing with conviction. "She is the Rift's anchor—its gate made flesh! Slay her before she becomes the ruin of all Shadow World!"
Damon's rage cracked like thunder. "You'll not touch her."
Serathion lifted his gauntleted hand, sigils of the First Forge erupting across his skin. "Then you, Damon Thorne, are traitor to the Oath, and your blood shall quench the steel."
The Ironsworn staggered between loyalty and fear, but Serathion wasted no breath on hesitation. He roared an invocation, runes spilling from his mouth like molten iron.
"Khorvaan drithuun! Velka morrath shael!"
(Iron binds, oath sears, flame judges!)
The spellfire exploded outward, a torrent of gold-white embers that sought to consume Damon whole.
Damon bared his fangs, dragging Dahlia behind him as his own aura surged black-crimson. His words were jagged, spat like venom:
"Draevthos kal ruin… Serrathuun vel khael!"
(Blood rends ruin, shadow unmakes fire!)
The clash ripped the chamber in half—steel grinding, spellfire tearing banners to ash, the air itself screaming under the strain of broken allegiances. Ironsworn split, some rushing to Serathion's call, others faltering in fear, torn between oath and the bond Damon had forged with them in battle.
The first blade struck. Brother turned upon brother, shield against shield. Civil war erupted inside the sacred Conclave, blood spattering against walls once carved with unity.
Through it all Dahlia convulsed in Damon's arms, her lips moving with words not her own.
"Kel draethuun… vael shorath velth…"
(The Witness opens… the path severs flame…)
Her voice drowned beneath the roar of war, but Damon felt every syllable like a dagger to the bone.
And in the chaos, Serathion's eyes burned brighter, not with fear, but with a grim knowing: if Dahlia's transformation reached its end, no steel nor spell would matter.
---
Steel rang against claw, oath-bonds snapping like glass under the weight of betrayal. Serathion's cry still echoed through the chamber, but now it was drowned beneath the rising storm of voices, snarls, and spellfire.
Zorathion unfurled his vast obsidian wings and planted himself before Dahlia's trembling form, his shadow eclipsing her convulsing body. His voice split the air like a death knell.
"Kelthuur vel draem, shaelor veyrun! Shadow World shall not claim her while I draw breath!" (The chains of dream, break and fall! Shadow World shall not claim her while I live!)
The Ironsworn surged at him, a wall of iron flesh and fury, but his wings burst with black flame, scattering them back. Each plume that touched their armor seared glyphs of banishment, runes hissing across steel.
Damon's chest heaved, torn between his oath to his people and the woman writhing beneath the Witness's mark. He barked at Sareth across the fractured circle.
"Sareth—hold your line! She is no enemy—she is the fulcrum of this war!"
But Sareth faltered, his face pale, caught in the noose of divided vows. His lips moved soundlessly before breaking into an oath-laden whisper.
"Veyrathuun… shae draemthuun… arvel mora'thyr…" (Veyrathuun watches… the dream bleeds… the oath withers…)
His voice cracked, trembling with the terror of the Ashborne's prophecy. He did not raise his blade against Damon—nor did he lower it from Dahlia.
Around them, the Conclave fractured into living shards of loyalty. Some dragons drew their blades at Serathion's command, their chants echoing like war drums:
"Velkaar shaeduun! Draethuun kal vorra! Ashborne must burn!" (Strike the shadow! Cut the bleeding flame! The Ashborne must burn!)
Others clashed against their brothers, shields and fangs bared, roaring allegiance to Damon:
"Othryn vel draem! Shaelor bind! Stand with the Ruthless One!" (Oath of dream! Flame bind us! Stand with the Ruthless One!)
The chamber dissolved into a maelstrom—brother tearing into brother, allies shattered into factions. Steel rang, blood spilled, and chants overlapped until the air itself throbbed with a dozen clashing truths.
Zorathion's wing tightened protectively around Dahlia, who gasped through her teeth as more glyphs seared across her skin, spilling their light like molten veins. Damon roared above the chaos, his voice breaking the tide of spells and betrayal:
"Shadow World shaeduun draethuun—stand down, or be broken!" (The Rift shadow bleeds—stand down, or be destroyed!)
But the Conclave had already broken. And there was no standing down.
---
The air tore itself apart.
Not wind. Not storm. But the world screaming as the Veil strained.
The arch convulsed—its stones shuddering like teeth grinding under a god's jaw. From within the fracture, a roar thundered, not heard but lived. It rattled marrow, it bent knees, it clawed into blood as if veins themselves carried its command.
Then came the eye.
A serpentine slit vast as the battlefield peeled open across the rift. Black sclera bleeding ashflame, iris burning with molten ruin, pupil stretching into infinity. One blink—and every oath, every defiance, every scream of war shrank into silence. The Conclave, the traitors, the loyalists, even Serathion himself—all froze beneath that gaze.
Zorathion's wing trembled where it shielded me. Damon's sword lowered despite his will. Sareth's oath faltered in his chest.
I could not breathe.
Because I felt it. Not sight, not sound—breath.
The world exhaled, and the breath was him. Veyrathuun. Breathing through the crack. Every inhale dragged shadows inward, every exhale poured ruin back across the sky.
The glyphs beneath my skin burned awake. No choice. No mercy. My veins sang with sigils that weren't mine, spiraling like molten brands across my arms, my chest, my throat. They pulsed in rhythm with that eye. His eye.
And then the whispers.
Low. Endless. Carved from the language before light. The Conclave's Dragons dropped weapons as their ears bled. Serathion clutched his head, snarling against the voices.
From the Rift came the chorus:
"Aesh'tharuun vel'korr, shael'tuun vorrenn, kaeyth dral Veyrathuun…"
(Through fracture and ash, through flame and abyss, awaken Veyrathuun.)
The arch's runes ignited, each syllable burning into the stones. My body convulsed, every glyph on me responding like a chained beast to its master's call.
"Shael'drathuun, kaeyr'mor, thryss al'vorrenn…"
(The Rift's anchor, the binding core, blood made vessel.)
The ground beneath me split, spirals of molten ash carving into the soil. Damon shouted my name but his voice was drowned by the second roar—the breath turned into hunger.
For a heartbeat, the Rift widened. Enough to glimpse more than the eye. Scales that were continents. Horns that cracked through void. And teeth. A row of them, longer than towers, dripping ruin that sizzled before it touched air.
But he did not step through. Not yet.
The eye closed to a slit. The breath stilled. But I could feel him still breathing inside me. His tether had latched. His will had tasted mine.
I was no longer just Dahlia.
I was something more. Or less.
The Rift's anchor.
And all of them—Damon, Serathion, Zorathion, the Conclave—knew it the moment they saw the glyphs blazing across my skin.
The silence broke with a whisper not from the Rift, but from within me:
"Velkorr shael'thuun… draem'vorrenn."
(The anchor awakens… the end begins.)
---
The Rift shuddered with a cracking sound like bones snapping across the heavens. Stone runes peeled away from the arch, shattering into burning fragments that rained down on the battlefield like molten hail. Dragons and mortals alike stumbled to their knees, the gale ripping banners from their standards, tearing blood from fresh wounds, choking lungs with ashflame dust.
I could not breathe. Every heartbeat felt stolen. The gale pressed me down, spine arching as the glyphs carved beneath my skin blazed so fiercely I thought my veins were about to burst. My scream ripped free—yet even that was stolen. It braided with the Rift's own song, a guttural harmony no human throat should carry.
"Vel draethuun… moraa korr shael."
The ancient whisper rolled out of me like thunder across graves. My voice was not my own—it was his. The First Dragon was already inside me, pulling every thread of my soul taut, stretching me into something else.
Damon lunged for me through the storm, fangs bared, his eyes black with fury. But Serathion cut across his path, blade igniting with stormfire. Their clash cracked louder than the Rift itself, sparks showering over bodies as Alpha struck Commander, the bond of oath shredded in a single heartbeat. The Conclave screamed and turned on itself—fangs, claws, banners all snapping in betrayal.
No more unity. No more vow. Only blood.
The Rift roared wider.
A shadow like a continent uncoiled within the crack. Then—an eye. Serpentine. Immense. The lid slid open to reveal a pupil burning in ashflame. My glyphs pulsed in rhythm with its gaze, every beat a chain linking me to him.
Stone screamed as horns pressed against the barrier, black ridges clawing through the veil of worlds. The arch bent inward, one colossal point breaking through with a quake that toppled half the battlefield.
And then—silence.
Only the sound of my breath, ragged, torn, carrying the Rift's echo still upon it.
"Vel draethuun… moraa korr shael."
The First Horn of Veyrathuun was already in our world.
---
🔥 Was that enough chaos for you, my brave readers? The Conclave has shattered, Dahlia is no longer fully herself, Damon and Serathion are clawing each other apart, and the First Dragon is pressing through the Rift. This is only the beginning of the endgame.
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