South of Navaleon, where the mountain mists swallowed sunlight and time, an ancient temple cracked for the first time in centuries.
A statue within—long dormant—began to weep oil.
High atop the Tower of Eldritch Light, the Oracle of Drevani screamed in her sleep.
Across oceans, in the shattered halls of the once-feared Dominion, a dusty tome snapped open on its own. A single line glowed:
"The flame returns not as a torch—but as a wheel. And where it turns, fate follows."
Dark-robed seers convened.
Far in the tundra, a clan of wandering ice-bound mages felt a pulse. They didn't know its source. Only that something had shifted. Something vast.
Back in Navaleon, Sharath stared at a prototype glider with steel-frame wings.
He didn't know yet what stirred. But the world had noticed him.
And it was beginning to stir in return.