The forgehouse was silent.
Ashes drifted like snow across the cracked stone floor, settling on rusted anvils and broken spellcasters. It smelled of iron, dust, and ancient echoes. Altharion sat cross-legged at the center, Kael's malnourished body wrapped in stolen cloth, but his presence filled the entire space with quiet power.
He had begun to remember more than magic.
He remembered pain—not just the pain of betrayal, but of creation. The forging of spells, the birthing of runes, the building of nations from nothing but mana and will.
And now, he would rebuild.
He lifted the cracked mana crystal again—a tiny thing, dull and nearly inert. He closed his eyes and focused.
Breath in. Draw the current.
Breath out. Let the world respond.
Nothing. The energy flow was fractured, like a shattered mirror.
He opened his eyes.
"No longer does the world speak the same tongue," he muttered. "Then I shall teach it to listen."
He scratched the ground with a sliver of bone, sketching symbols so old they hadn't been seen since the fall of the Arcane Trinity. Glyphs of resonance. Symbols of alignment.
A rune flared softly.
Not bright. But real.
He smiled. "Progress."
Outside, the slums stirred.
The overseer's death had sparked rumors. Some said it was poison. Others said it was divine judgment.
But the slaves knew. They had seen the boy, Kael, change. His eyes no longer looked like a child's. His voice carried a weight it never had before. And he spoke little, but when he did, people listened.
Some feared him.
Others watched him with quiet hope.
A few began to follow him—not as a leader, but as a storm they wished to survive.
Valtheria - Inner Province - Sanctum of the Sky Lords
"The Rune activated?"
"Yes, Lord Helios. Briefly. But unmistakably."
The council chamber pulsed with light, floating crystals orbiting above the polished obsidian table. Seven figures sat cloaked in shimmering robes, each with eyes like fire and skin branded with divine sigils.
Helios, the Arch-Magus of the Seventh Seat, leaned forward. "That glyph hasn't echoed since the War of Sundering."
"We buried it."
"We buried him," Helios corrected. "And if he stirs again..."
The room grew cold.
"Then the gods will demand action."
Back in Duskfall - The Third Night
Altharion opened his eyes.
He had succeeded in stabilizing three basic spells using raw willpower and modified glyphs: Flame, Bolt, and Veil. All crude shadows of their former glory. But the concepts were reborn. That was enough.
Tonight, he would test them.
A gang of slavers had taken over the nearby water well. They controlled the rationing. The children cried at night. The weak were denied.
He walked there, barefoot.
The guards laughed.
"Look who it is. The corpse walks again."
He stopped ten paces from them.
"Leave."
"Or what?"
He raised one hand. Whispered one word.
"Ignis."
A ring of fire erupted from his palm, licking at their feet but not burning. Controlled. Precise.
They screamed. One ran. Another drew a blade.
He drew a symbol in the air—a twisting bolt. Energy surged and struck the man square in the chest. He crumpled.
The others fled.
The people stared.
He turned and walked back.
The next morning, water was shared freely.
Later That Week - Inner Province
Helios stood at the edge of the Viewing Pool, a scrying spell hovering in the air. It showed a boy with glowing hands and ancient glyphs.
"He's not at full strength," murmured another sage. "But the signature is clear. That's Altharion."
"Reborn."
"We must send the Shadow Order."
Helios nodded slowly. "No... not yet. Let him grow. Let him remember. Let him show the world who he is."
"Why?"
Helios turned, eyes like burning coals.
"Because when we kill him again, I want the world to know why he was feared."
Final Scene - Duskfall Cathedral Ruins
Altharion stood atop the rusted gargoyle of the cathedral again. The stars above had dimmed, veiled by smog, but his eyes pierced through it.
The wind shifted. He could feel the ripples in the ley lines. Someone had taken notice.
He closed his eyes.
He saw a tower of silver, a face from his past, a blade once plunged into his back.
"I am not yet whole... but I am awake."
He raised his hands to the sky.
The clouds churned.
The glyphs around him hummed.
And for the first time in 13,000 years, the heavens whispered a single, trembling phrase:
"The Archon lives."