-Tan'thalon, noble district-
Tan'thalon offered distractions in abundance. Eldarion took none of them easily. The streets blurred beneath his steps, lanternlight stretching long across stone as evening settled in. His thoughts refused to quiet, circling back, again and again, to the same question. Those words— They couldn't have been his. Could they?
He was one of May'Jahan's chosen. A paladin. Oath-bound. Shielded. His will was steel, his mind a fortress. Even Ba'Ham himself should not have been able to touch it. He told himself that. More than once. His steps slowed as he reached a quieter district, where noble estates gave way to more private indulgences. There, tucked behind gilded doors and drawn curtains, a salon waited—subtle, secluded. Refined. Safe.
Eldarion exhaled and stepped inside. Warmth met him first. Candlelight flickered through smoky crystal lamps, casting the room in soft gold and shadow. Silks draped the walls, muting sound, turning every voice into something intimate. At the far end, a pair of dancers moved in slow, perfect harmony—graceful, distant, untouchable.
For a moment, it was enough. He sat. Let the quiet press in. Then—
"Lord Eldarion. Champion."
The voice came smooth as velvet. He looked up. A woman stood before him, cloaked in deep violet, her hood casting her features in shadow—though not enough to hide the faint glow in her eyes. She bowed slightly, controlled, deliberate.
"What brings you here?"
Her hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder. Warm. Grounding. Eldarion frowned faintly, studying her.
"How do you know my name?" he asked, one brow lifting. A beat. "Actually—never mind." He waved it off, tension bleeding into dismissal. "I was looking for… distraction."
Her lips curved, just slightly. "Then may I sit with you?"
She didn't wait for an answer. She was already seated. Not that he stopped her. The hood slipped back, revealing shoulder-length blonde hair tipped in violet—a deliberate touch, striking without being loud. Her gaze held his easily.
"If I may be so bold," she said softly, "you look troubled."
Eldarion let out a breath, heavier than he intended.
"I am," he admitted. "I feel… stuck." His jaw tightened. "That blind witch is stealing what is rightfully mine. And the council—"
"The council wastes you." She cut in gently, but without hesitation. "I've seen it," she continued, her voice low, coaxing. "They nod when you speak. Then tear your words apart the moment you leave."
The glow in her eyes deepened—subtle, but there.
"They fear your strength."
Eldarion stiffened. Just slightly.
"They are cautious," he said, more guarded now. "Blind, perhaps. But I am May'Jahan's chosen. They will learn."
"In time," she echoed.
Her hand lifted. The candles bent. Not much—but enough. Flames flickered unnaturally, smoke twisting into shapes that should not have held. Images formed. Talia. Laughing. Close—too close—to the Diviner. The council, heads bowed—not to him, but to her. Eldarion went rigid.
"And yet," the woman murmured, leaning closer, "time favors others."
The smoke shifted again.
"Look how quickly she eclipses you." Her voice softened—but the words cut deeper for it. "A blind woman. A gutter-born fighter. Claiming Tan'thalon's heart." Another shift. "You—paladin, heir of promise—reduced to asking for scraps of their faith."
Eldarion's hands curled into fists.
"No," he said, breath tightening. "Talia is mine." The words came faster now. "The Diviner twists her. Steals what belongs to me."
The woman smiled. Faint. Satisfied.
"Then take it back." She leaned closer still, her voice threading through the smoke itself. "Not with supplication." The images sharpened. "With power." The candles flared. "You could command the council. Lead Tan'thalon's armies."
Her hand brushed his arm. The vision changed. Eldarion—crowned in glory. Standing above the chamber. Voices rising in his name. Talia at his side. The Diviner— Broken. Forgotten in shadow. His breath quickened. The room felt smaller. Closer.
"Stand with me, Eldarion," she whispered.
The smoke curled upward, forming something like a throne.
"And I will show you how to turn whispers into thrones."
Silence followed. But it wasn't empty. It pressed. Waited. Eldarion stared into the vision, something warring behind his eyes. Pride. Anger. Doubt. Faith—fading, but not gone. When he spoke, his voice was low. Unsteady. But leaning.
"Yes…" A breath. "They will see." His jaw set. "They will all see."
He stood. Abruptly. The vision broke as he turned, already moving for the door. His stride returned—stronger now, sharper. Familiar. Armor without steel. He didn't look back. The door closed behind him with a muted finality. The woman remained seated. Watching. For a moment, she said nothing. Then her lips curled into a faint, knowing smile.
"Why him, Selvara?"
The voice came from behind—raspy, worn. She didn't startle. She turned. A man stood in the shadows, cloaked in deep green, his face hidden beneath a heavy cowl. Only the outline of him seemed real. Her eyes flared again, violet light catching the edges of the room.
"Because our lord grows impatient, Kerryth," she said smoothly. "The Wardens take too long."
A delicate lift of her glass. A measured sip. "Ineffective."
Kerryth shifted slightly.
"He is well placed," she continued. "High enough to matter." A faint pause. "Low enough to shape."
"Why now?" he pressed.
Selvara's smile widened—just enough to show its edge.
"Can't you feel it?" Her gaze drifted toward the ceiling, as though she could see beyond stone. "One of his temples stirs."
Outside, the city breathed on, unaware. Just beyond the salon doors, a ragged figure lingered. A man in torn cloth, hood drawn low. Still. Watching. For a moment, he adjusted the fabric at his brow— And his face shifted. Not much. But enough. Then he turned. Slipped into the alley. And vanished into shadow.
-The temple of Bakh'Emeth-
The silence that followed felt almost holy—too vast, too heavy to disturb. Dust drifted lazily through the air, catching the weak light of Talia's gauntlet like flecks of gold in murky water. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then the Diviner turned her head slightly.
"Do you hear that?"
Talia strained her ears. Nothing but the slow, steady drip of water in the dark.
"No."
"Exactly," the Diviner murmured. "The Keeper's gone for now, but its silence has weight." she turned to Talia, a faint smirk on her lips. "There's a chamber ahead."
She moved first, guided not by sight but by the subtle hum in the air that only she could feel. Talia followed, her light pushing back the dark in trembling circles. The air grew cooler, denser, and the scent changed—from dust to something older, coppery, like blood long turned to dust. The passage opened into a vast hall. The light reached only a fraction of it, but what it touched was enough. Rows upon rows of skeletons lay where they had fallen, some clutching weapons rusted beyond recognition, others still kneeling as though in prayer. They stretched far into the dark, a congregation frozen mid-supplication.
"Gods…" Talia whispered.
"No," the Diviner said softly. "Not gods. Their victims."
She knelt, brushing her fingers over the nearest skull.
"Ba'Ham's fire burned here. I can still feel it—the scorch in the stone, the rage in the air. This was one of his sanctums once. When May'Jahan opposed him, her followers tried to claim it for the living."
"And he burned them alive."
"Worse." The Diviner's voice was hollow. "He unmade them."
Talia crouched beside her, frowning. "Unmade?"
"He took the spark of life that May'Jahan gave them and twisted it into something else—something that could serve him. When the war ended, both gods vanished, but the remnants of their war… stayed."
Talia's light flickered as a sudden chill passed over them. She glanced around, heart pounding. Her stomach turned.
"He made demons."
"Worse than demons. Reflections of what he wanted to be—creators. But his fire could only mimic life. They burned themselves from the inside out."
The floor beneath them was scarred and blackened, as if the stone itself had melted once. In the flicker of Talia's light, she could make out shapes fused into the ground—distorted forms, their bones warped and half-absorbed into the rock, like wax figures caught in mid-scream.
"These are his children," she whispered. "The failed ones."
"Failures still burn," the Diviner said quietly. "They're never gone."
Talia swallowed hard and turned to move deeper into the chamber. Her light caught another row of skeletons—these different from the rest. The bones were thinner, the skulls narrower, and their ribcages flared outward to support long, curved joints. Wings.
"These…" she breathed, stepping closer. "These aren't his."
The Diviner's brow furrowed. "Describe them."
"Tall. Lithe. The wings—structured like bats, but strong. And the skulls… they're not monstrous. They're almost beautiful."
The Diviner exhaled slowly. "Then the Nyxir were here too."
"The what?"
"An ancient race," she said. "Before the Arc Wall, before the storms. Night-born, winged, bound to the old winds. They lived in the high caves, worshiped silence and sky. If they were here…" She trailed off, grim. "Then they fought for May'Jahan."
"And Ba'Ham slaughtered them."
"No," the Diviner said softly. "He corrupted them."
Talia turned back toward the demonic remains fused into the ground—the twisted bones, the scorched skulls. The difference between the Nyxir and Ba'Ham's children was stark now: one elegant and natural, the other brutal and malformed.
"He tried to turn them," she said. "The Nyxir."
"Yes. He wanted their grace, their wings—their freedom. But fire does not give; it takes. What he made instead were hollow things. Flames wearing flesh."
A deep creak rolled through the hall, reverberating off the stone. Talia froze. The bones around them shuddered—first a tremor, then a slow, collective shift. Dust poured down from the ceiling as the floor began to quake beneath their boots.
"Diviner…"
"He's still here," she whispered. "Not Ba'Ham himself, but the memory of his fire. It has noticed us and it's waking them."
From the far end of the hall, one of the fused skeletons began to glow faintly within its chest cavity—an ember reigniting after centuries. Then another. And another. Soon, the chamber was filling with dull, orange light as hundreds of bones began to stir, heat rippling through them like breath.
"They're burning again," Talia said, stepping back.
"No," the Diviner replied, her voice barely steady. "They're remembering."
The first of Ba'Ham's children tore free from the stone with a sound like breaking glass—its molten spine arching, its mouth splitting open in a soundless scream. The fire inside it flared bright as a forge, painting the hall in blood-orange light. Behind it, others began to rise, wingless but radiant with living flame. Talia raised her sword, her light answering the fire.
"Then we make them forget too," she growled.
The hall breathed. That was the only word Talia could find for it. Every stone, every bone seemed to draw in air, then exhale heat. The pale light from her gauntlet flickered against the rising glow of the rekindled dead—two fires, one gold and clean, the other molten and ravenous. The contrast made her stomach twist. When her light touched the flames within Ba'Ham's children, it didn't banish them—it fed them. The pure shimmer of her holy fire bled into the cursed embers, brightening them, making their movements sharper, their eyes burn hotter.
"Diviner," she whispered, stepping back. "My light—it's making them stronger."
"Then stop," the blind woman rasped.
She was shaking now, sweat slick on her pale skin. Her magic had burned too long in the ruins above.
"You can't fight fire with fire, Wildfire. Not his."
"Then what do we do?"
The Diviner's lips parted, but no answer came. Around them, the hall glowed brighter as one by one the Children rose from their molten graves. Their forms were vaguely humanoid but twisted, their limbs uneven, fingers like half-cooled iron hooks. Veins of fire pulsed beneath cracked, blackened skin. They did not breathe—but their heat filled the air like a furnace.
"They're not looking at us," Talia whispered.
"Not yet," the Diviner murmured. "They're remembering how."
The temperature climbed, the air shimmering. Talia's armor began to sting against her skin. She looked toward the exit, a low archway at the far end of the hall, half-collapsed under rubble.
"We can't stay here."
"If we move too quickly, they'll hear."
"If we don't move, we'll burn."
The Diviner hesitated, then nodded.
"The Keeper's silence still lingers in the corridor we came from. If we stay close to it, they might not sense us."
Talia took her hand again—steady, despite the tremor in her own.
"Then we go. Quietly."
Step by step, they moved through the field of reawakening corpses. The light from Talia's gauntlet dimmed to a faint shimmer, just enough to see the Diviner's outline. For a moment heat rushed from her chest to her cheeks. Then she realised just how worn out the Diviner looked. She had given everything she had just to protect her. The only thing she could do now was guide her. Each step was agony; the air blistered her throat, her armor seared against her shoulders. Behind them came the faint crackle of flame and the low, dissonant groan of something trying to speak through ash. They slipped through the broken archway just as the nearest of the Children turned its head toward the sound of their movement. Talia didn't look back. The corridor beyond was cooler, the heat dimming to a bearable warmth. For a few breaths, they said nothing—just the sound of their boots on stone, the faint hiss of Talia's gauntlet light. Then, from somewhere above, came that sound again.
A soft click.
Talia froze, sword half-drawn.