The scream of the land followed Nijuil into sleep.
It was not sound in the ordinary sense, but pressure—an unbearable weight pressing against his chest, his skull, his very soul. In the dream, the sky fractured into veins of crimson light, and from those cracks poured voices, countless and overlapping, all speaking his name with the same terrible certainty. He stood alone upon a vast plain of shattered crystal, its surface reflecting not his face, but a thousand versions of himself—kneeling, ruling, broken, crowned.
A jagged crown descended from above, forged of splintered Aether and blood-dark metal. As it pressed onto his head, pain exploded through him, and the world bent.
Judge them.
Nijuil woke with a violent gasp, his hand slamming into cold stone as if anchoring himself to reality. His heart thundered in his ears, sweat soaking through his clothes. For several long moments, he could only breathe, grounding himself in the present—the rough texture of the safehouse floor, the faint hum of distant crystals, the ache in his limbs that reminded him he was still human.
Noctyrix was silent.
That silence unsettled him more than any whisper ever had.
He rose before dawn, moving quietly through the camp as others slept fitfully. The sky beyond the jagged peaks was pale and bruised, as though the world itself had not rested. At the edge of the ridge stood Mae, her silhouette unmistakable, wings folded tightly against her back. She stared east, eyes fixed on something only she could feel.
"You heard it too," she said without turning.
"Yes," Nijuil replied. His voice sounded steadier than he felt.
They stood together in silence as the horizon flickered faintly with unstable Aether, the distant nexuses bleeding energy into the air like open wounds. The land was changing. It was always changing—but this time, it felt deliberate.
Scouts returned as the camp stirred, their expressions grim. Maps were unrolled, old markings illuminated by fresh fractures spreading across the parchment.
"Three nexuses destabilized overnight," one scout reported. "Ashen, Vireholm, and Sol'thara. All at once."
Mae inhaled sharply. "Those places are tied to early Ordeals."
"Legendary ones," an archivist added quietly. "Events that reshaped regions. Bloodlines. History."
Nijuil felt a chill creep up his spine. Obsidian wasn't hunting power blindly—he was recreating patterns. Reopening scars the world had barely survived the first time.
"He's preparing a convergence," Mae said. "A forced mass awakening."
The words carried horror beyond their meaning. Nijuil imagined entire cities pushed to the brink—fear, agony, desperation igniting relics within those who survived… and destroying those who didn't. Noctyrix pulsed faintly at the thought, a low resonance like anticipation restrained by iron will.
That night, Nijuil could not sleep again.
He sat alone, staring at the gauntlet, tracing the jagged seams where relic and flesh met. Memories surfaced unbidden—his brother standing at the Ashen Nexus, confident, smiling, believing strength came from denial. Believing pain could be locked away.
You felt balance today, Noctyrix finally murmured, its voice quieter than ever. But balance breaks. Judgment endures.
"For once," Nijuil said softly, "I don't need you to explain the world to me."
The relic did not answer.
Mae joined him sometime later, lowering herself beside him without a word. She didn't reach for him this time—she simply stayed, her presence steady, grounding.
"You're afraid," she said gently.
"Yes," he admitted. "But not of Obsidian."
Her gaze dropped to the gauntlet. "Power doesn't corrupt," she said. "It reveals. And what I saw today wasn't a tyrant."
Nijuil closed his eyes, letting her words settle. For the first time, fear didn't feel like weakness. It felt like awareness.
At dawn, he was summoned.
Deep within the safehouse lay the inner archive, a chamber few ever entered. Ancient tomes hovered in suspension fields, their pages etched with sigils that pulsed faintly as Nijuil stepped inside. The air grew heavier with each step, as if the past itself pressed closer.
One name appeared again and again.
The False King.
"Not a title," an elder said, voice grave. "A role."
Nijuil's throat tightened. "Explain."
"In every cycle," the elder continued, "there is one who stands between collapse and order. One who can end an Ordeal… or crown it. A judge without a throne. A king who must never rule."
"And the others?" Nijuil asked quietly.
The elder's silence answered him.
When he emerged, the sky was fully light—but it felt dimmer than before. Mae waited for him outside, reading the truth on his face before he spoke.
"You know now," she said.
"Yes." He exhaled slowly. "And I hate it."
She placed her hand over Noctyrix, unflinching as it glowed beneath her touch. "Names don't decide who you are. Choices do."
A cry cut through the moment—a scout descending in panic. "Obsidian has moved. He's at the Ashen Nexus. And he's not alone."
The world seemed to tilt.
The Ashen Nexus—where his brother had fallen.
Noctyrix stirred, reverent and eager. Return, it whispered. The crown awaits.
Nijuil looked east, fire steady behind his eyes. "Then we end this where it began."
Mae's wings unfurled beside him.
Far away, at the heart of the Ashen Nexus, Obsidian traced a symbol into molten crystal as Judicators gathered in silence. "Let the False King come," he murmured. "History demands a verdict."
And the world leaned toward judgment.