Twilight bled across Artantica like a wound refusing to close. The land, once veined with the lifeblood of magic, now pulsed faintly, too faintly. The Ice Fountain (Syltharion), once a thing of brilliance and breath, no longer shimmered beneath the moon. Its waters, sacred and moon-fed, had grown quiet. A dull rhythm beat in its depths, like a heart clinging to memory.
Every river, every whisper of wind carried grief.
But none carried it more deeply than Eryndor.
He had not left his quarters for days. Not since Seriane vanished. Her voice still wandered through the empty corridors, curious, bright, always half-laughing as she challenged his magic or dared him and Kaelen to escape with her into the Hollow Waste (Outcast Land), where duty did not reach.
But he had stayed.
And now she was gone.
He sat near the frozen basin behind the manor, a place she had once adored. His fingers closed around the charm she used to wear, cold against his palm. Ice roses bloomed quietly around him, their fragile petals humming with silence. The maids avoided the garden now. They knew not to touch a grieving Ariven.
Only Aelric came.
He moved like someone bearing his own grief, his boots muffled by frost, until he stood just close enough to speak.
"She trusted you, Eryndor," he said, the words soft but raw.
Eryndor didn't lift his eyes. "She told me they were going to run. I should have gone with them. I should've stopped time."
"Kaelen thinks you killed her."
"He tried to kill me," Eryndor said quietly. "Didn't hesitate."
"You didn't even fight back."
Aelric waited.
Eryndor's voice broke. "Because maybe I deserved it."
It had been Morvane who stopped Kaelen, placing him in chains before the crowd could gather. His justification rang in the court: Eryndor was noble-born, of the Ariven. One of the sacred three. But those words did not soften the shame.
They sharpened it.
Far across the continent, in a chamber of obsidian hidden beneath the old ridges of the Blackwing Mountains, Kimono stood in silence. The Watcher Seer was wrapped in silver wolfskin, his eyes burning faint with the final threads of moonlight visions.
"The Chosen awakens," he whispered. "But in pain."
The Watchers had kept their vigil for centuries. Through famine, war, and ruin, they watched the Earth's life force, waiting for the prophecy to stir. And now, it had. The fountain could still be restored — but only by a willing protector. One who had not tasted blood.
Kimono had seen him clearly.
Zerel.
Vareon.
The boy forged in war, raised on lies, trained to obey.
"Send word to Morvane," Kimono said. "The fire in him still burns. He will do what must be done."
In the war barracks, Vareon — Zerel — stood alone in the square. His fists were cracked and bleeding, the ground around him littered with the memory of his fury. Seriane's death had carved something out of him. Something vital.
Back to Eryndor
Now there were whispers.
Kaelen, imprisoned.
Morvane, silent.
Eryndor, broken.
"I'm done waiting," he said aloud, voice rough with fire.
Aelric stepped beside him, eyes tired. "So you'll move?"
"If I don't, they'll keep falling. First Seriane. Then Kaelen. Then…"
"You think Morvane planned it?"
Vareon hesitated. "I think he's watching. Waiting. For me to become what he needs."
That evening, drawn by a pull he didn't understand, Eryndor walked alone to the Ice Fountain. The moonlight, pale and tired, lit the shallow waters. They no longer roared. They shimmered quietly, like a breath barely drawn.
He knelt by the edge.
The reflection did not stay his.
It shifted.
A face younger than his own stared back. Eyes familiar, sharper. Haunted.
Ariven.
Then, beside him in the water's mirror, came a woman.
Selhara.
Vareon's mother.
Her smile bloomed warm, knowing until it broke into grief.
Another figure emerged.
Morvane.
Young. Quiet. Watching from the distance, clutching letters unsent. His eyes were full of secrets. And longing.
Ariven Soe had discovered too late what had grown between them.
The vision blurred — Selhara bleeding, Soe Ariven falling, Morvane crumbling beside a relic, whispering her name like it could raise the dead.
Eryndor stumbled back from the water, his breath shallow.
It was true.
Morvane had loved her. His brother's wife. Vareon's mother.
And when she died, he didn't just raise her son out of loyalty.
He raised him out of guilt. Out of something unspoken.
Out of love.
The message from Kimono reached Morvane before the second bell of night.
He stood alone in his chambers, firelight dancing across his walls. The words burned into his hand like prophecy branded in flesh.
Zerel must rise.
But not by force.
He must choose it. He must break on his own.
Morvane opened the velvet case.
Inside lay the relic once held by Selhara. A shard of memory. A relic of both love and failure.
He would awaken Vareon.
Even if it cost him everything.
Even if it meant letting the boy believe Seriane could still return.
Because if he touched the fountain with that kind of love in his heart.
The world just might bloom again.
Far in the north, a howl broke the quiet.
It was not a beast known to this age.
It had not been heard in a hundred years.
The Ice Fountain was cracking.
And the shadow that followed would not wait.