The groan of the cathedral spire deepened into a roar.
Stone screamed against stone as the ancient structure finally yielded to the Domain's fracture. Dust erupted into the eclipsed air—thick, choking, heavy with centuries of incense and forgotten prayers. Massive blocks tore free, crashing into the square with bone-shattering force, shards exploding outward like shrapnel.
The ground buckled.
Aetheris recoiled beneath its own faith.
Screams tore loose—raw, animal sounds from throats already scraped hoarse by terror.
"Run! Scatter!" Sera Voss bellowed.
Her voice cut through panic like flame through shadow. She seized a nearby child and hauled him toward the square's edge, fire licking along her free hand to ward off stirring illusions. "Move! It's coming down!"
Toren Vale roared beside her, a wall of muscle and grit as he shoved civilians clear of falling debris. "Form lines! Away from the center—now!" He jabbed his makeshift spear at a tumbling slab, diverting it just enough to spare a huddled family.
Mira Lin clung to a wounded woman, small hands glowing weakly as she tried to close a gashed leg. Her eyes never left the sky.
"It's… it's too big," she whispered.
Her golden light sputtered like a candle in a storm.
The spire—once the towering heart of Aetheris's faith, its pinnacle carved with wards meant to guard against darkness—tilted inexorably. Shadows clung to falling stone. Illusions whispered mockery as they descended: hollow echoes of priestly chants, talismans crumbling mid-air.
At the square's heart stood Luan Yue.
Motionless.
Silver hair stirred in the violent downdraft. Pale eyes reflected the collapsing world with unnerving calm. Survivors surged around him—some brushing past in blind flight, others instinctively clustering behind his slender form, as if drawn to an unseen gravity.
Sera fought her way back to him, face smeared with dust and sweat.
"Luan!" she shouted. "Do something—eclipse it! Like the beast, like the tendrils! You can stop this!"
He did not answer at once.
His gaze lifted to the falling mass, measuring. Inside, pressure mounted—a vast, aching cold that warned him of the truth.
This was not illusion.
Not contingency.
This collapse was real, absolute, anchored in fractured reality itself.
To eclipse it would not cost warmth.
Not memory's edge.
It would demand a truth.
Toren reached them, panting, a child slung over his shoulder. "Not everyone's getting out," he said grimly. "Paths are blocked. We save who we can and run."
Yet even he glanced at Luan with reluctant hope.
Mira looked up through tears streaking dust down her cheeks. "Please," she whispered. "They have families. Like mine did."
The words struck deeper than falling stone.
For the first time, Luan's serene mask cracked.
Mercy—or preservation.
To save them was to eclipse a piece of himself.
Forever.
A massive slab tore free—hurtling straight toward the densest cluster of survivors. Dozens trapped. No time.
Sera reached for him. "Luan—"
He stepped forward.
Alone.
Moonlight without source gathered around him, pouring from the fractured sky. It expanded into a vast crescent aura—silver and absolute—unfurling like a veil over the square.
"Eclipse."
The word carried inevitability.
Reality bent.
The ripple was visible now—a distortion that muted sound and warped light. The spire's collapse… simply failed to complete itself. Stones froze mid-fall, suspended as if time itself hesitated.
Then—retroactively—
The structure settled.
Cracks sealed.
Debris reassembled in perception.
The cathedral stood—fractured, wounded, but upright.
Its destruction eclipsed from existence.
Silence fell.
Dust drifted.
Then awe broke through.
"It's… standing."
"He stopped it."
"The Pale One—he's a god!"
Some knelt. Others recoiled in fear.
Luan did neither.
He collapsed to one knee.
The crescent aura faded. Blood streamed from both eyes now, warm against skin gone numb. The cold hollowed deeper than ever—a void opening where something precious had lived.
And then—
Her voice.
"Luan, my moonlit boy… mind your lessons."
Warm. Gentle.
"You see too clearly," she whispered, as she once had in exile. "That is both gift and curse."
Then—pleading. Broken.
"Why, Luan?"
The voice vanished.
Not faded.
Gone.
Eclipsed.
He reached for it—and found nothing. No tone. No warmth. No echo.
Only silence.
His shoulders shuddered.
Once.
A soft, broken sound escaped his lips.
Tears mixed with blood.
Mira reached him first. "You're hurt—let me—"
He shook his head faintly.
"Some wounds," he whispered, "are not flesh."
Toren set the child down and bowed his head. "We owe you our lives."
Survivors gathered, murmuring.
"The Pale Eclipse…"
Sera knelt beside him. Her hand closed around his shoulder—firm, grounding.
"What did it take?" she asked quietly.
Luan met her gaze.
"A voice," he said. "Gone."
She didn't pull away. "Idiot," she muttered, softly. "But… thank you."
Cold deepened.
Frost crept along skin.
Then the whispers came.
Not from survivors.
From the Domain.
Trials await…
Confront your truths…
Eclipse your weaknesses…
Luan rose slowly.
The void ached.
But he was not alone.
Not anymore.