The wind over the Plains of Murmuring Dust did not whisper that day—it screamed. Shrieking through broken crags and across the sun-bleached skeletons of long-dead titans, the air carried with it not only dust, but dread. Beneath a sky choked with roiling ash clouds, Ryon stood at the edge of what once was a Southern temple. His cloak, now more scorched than whole, fluttered behind him like a banner of defiance.
Aurelia knelt beside a shattered obsidian totem, brushing her fingers through the sand. Beneath the first layer of dirt, ancient symbols pulsed faintly with hidden light. Not Aetheric—this was something older, untouched by the Divine Radiance or the Cradle Flames of the North. Something primal.
"We are standing on the mouth of something that was never meant to be opened," she muttered.
