The road to the ruins of Eldralith was unforgiving. Jagged cliffs rose on either side, their blackened stone scarred by centuries of elemental storms. The wind carried a bitter tang of metal and ash, remnants of a time when the First Era's conflicts had reshaped the land itself.
Nyra struggled to keep pace, her satchel heavy with the Conclave's supplies. Every so often, the hum within her chest flared, a reminder that the world itself seemed to respond to her presence.
"Keep your focus," Aethric said, his voice calm but firm. He walked ahead, his steps unhurried, yet precise, every motion measured to the terrain. "The ruins are… rarely unoccupied."
Nyra glanced at him. There was no boast, no flash of power, yet something about the way he moved through the mountain paths exuded control over forces unseen.
By dusk, the ruins appeared on the horizon. Crumbling towers clawed at the sky, their surfaces etched with sigils older than any living memory. It was beautiful and terrifying in equal measure, Eldralith, a city abandoned before it could ever be forgotten.
Aethric led her into a narrow pass between two towers, where the scent of old magic hung thick. "The artifact lies below," he said. "A key of the First Era hierarchy. Whoever controls it can bend lesser relics to their will."
Nyra's heart thudded. "And the cultists?"
"They are already here," he said, crouching behind a shattered wall. His eyes scanned the shadows. "We are not their only concern, but we must act before they fully assemble."
No sooner had the words left him than the attack began.
Figures emerged from the crumbling archways, humans, yes, but twisted by deliberate enchantments. Their robes shimmered with a pale corruption, and faint runes glowed on their skin. They were minor mages, but trained, coordinated, and fueled by intent.
Aethric stepped forward. Not raising his hands, not speaking words, yet the air around him thickened, distorting light and sound.
The attackers faltered. A single gesture from Aethric, a subtle sweep of his fingers, sent a shockwave of controlled mana through the battlefield. Arrows froze midair. Spells unraveled before they could be completed.
Nyra's mouth went dry. "How…?"
Aethric did not answer. He simply advanced, his calm, deliberate. With another gesture, he redirected an incoming bolt of corrupt magic, folding it back onto the attackers with surgical precision. Bodies staggered, some unconscious, some thrown clear, but none dead. He never struck lethally. Not yet.
Nyra followed, hands trembling as she tried to mimic his focus. Her spells fizzled, weak by comparison, but she began to sense the shape of control, how energy could obey the will without force, bending not by strength but by inevitability.
They reached the inner sanctum, a circular chamber where the artifact rested on a stone pedestal. It was an unassuming, small crystalline prism etched with fractal sigils, but Nyra could feel its weight in her chest. It pulsed faintly, resonating with the hum she had felt since the Conclave.
"Careful," Aethric whispered. "The relic is partially dormant. But it has its own defenses."
As Nyra stepped forward, a group of cultists burst into the room. They moved faster than the terrain should have allowed, spells at the ready.
Aethric's eyes narrowed. He did not panic. He did not shout. He simply raised both hands, palms outward.
The air shifted, a lattice of invisible force solidifying in an instant. Spells struck it and fell apart; the cultists' momentum met resistance, as if gravity itself had been selectively increased. One by one, they stumbled, while Nyra felt the pull of their intentions on the artifact, a hunger for power, a desire to dominate.
Aethric extended a finger toward the prism. A faint tendril of his magic entwined with it, stabilizing its pulse. He could have claimed it outright. He could have obliterated the cultists. But he waited, teaching without speaking, letting Nyra feel the artifact's will align with hers.
Then disaster.
From a concealed corner, a shadowy figure lunged. Too fast, too practiced. Before Nyra could react, half of the prism's crystalline body was torn free from the pedestal.
Aethric acted instantly, stepping between the artifact and the assailant. A flick of his wrist sent a surge of force, knocking the figure back. But the stolen half vanished into a pocket of dark mana, leaving a jagged fracture where the artifact had rested.
Nyra gasped. "They… they got it?"
"They did," Aethric said, his voice low, measured. "And now the threat is active. Whoever holds this fragment can begin the First Era hierarchy's chain of command anew. Every minor relic will resonate toward it."
The cultists scattered, leaving the chamber echoing with the artifact's fragmented pulse.
Aethric knelt beside the remaining portion of the prism. "We have it, but only partially. That is the danger. They are already moving. Whoever controls the other half will not wait to rebuild, they will strike."
Nyra's chest tightened as the hum inside her grew louder, reacting not to the fragment but to the missing piece.
"The past," Aethric said, rising and scanning the ruined chamber, "is no longer sleeping. And we are already behind."
Outside, the wind carried a faint echo, a pulse that Nyra could feel in her bones. A signal. A warning. A summons.
Half of the artifact has been stolen. It's missing fragment pulses with latent power, and the cultists' ambitions are now unbound. Nyra feels its call, and the warning is unmistakable: the Hollow Sovereign's influence is already extending, and the First Era's dangers have begun to converge on her.