The council chamber of the Vaelorian citadel was quiet.
Too quiet.
Elder Marath stood near the great circular window, the morning sun spilling across shelves of old scrolls and dusted relics. Elder Rhyden sat opposite him, leaning heavier than usual on his carved staff. Kael remained by the doorway, silent, arms crossed, eyes shifting the way they did before a storm.
None spoke at first.
Something was wrong with the air.
Marath exhaled slowly. "Do you feel it?"
Rhyden nodded. "The inner sanctum hasn't breathed since dawn. Its presence… faded."
Kael's jaw tightened. "The guardian has never gone silent."
"It hasn't vanished," Rhyden murmured. "But its pulse… receded. As if it sleeps." He glanced toward the western wing, where the Sanctum lay deep under layers of stone and wards. "A guardian never sleeps unless disturbed."
Marath's expression darkened. "And the world outside stirs louder each year."
---
The long table between them was cluttered with parchment—reports traced by inked arrows marking Sun Church movements across Falren.
Kael tapped the northern region. "Another camp reported near the coast last month. Smaller than the last, but they're spreading like roots."
"They've had their eyes on Falren for four years," Rhyden said. "Ever since the first object washed ashore."
Marath frowned. "We thought it was isolated. Storm debris, perhaps. But more came—fragments of unknown alloy, carved with symbols that predate any known kingdom."
"And then," Kael muttered, "five years ago the purple stones began to show."
Rhyden pulled a satchel forward and opened it. Inside lay a smooth violet shard—dull, but emanating a strange, faint pressure.
"Originally the stones were simply… rare," he said. "High magnitude. Higher than blues by several degrees. Expensive, dangerous, but manageable."
Marath finished the thought. "But now, the stones themselves have changed. It's as if the instability is airborne—an invisible haze."
Rhyden gave a slow nod.
"The violet presence around the citadel thickens by the week. the entire mana vault has turned purple. Even the mana wells beneath the runes are showing discoloration."
Kael looked up sharply. "Has anyone outside noticed?"
Marath hesitated. "Crown researchers from the coast have been studying the objects washed ashore. Their reports mentioned… residual violet traces matching the stones."
"That's too close," Kael muttered. "Far too close."
"And now," Marath continued, "merchants arrive asking questions. Mercenary bands linger longer in the village. Some from clans we've never heard of. The people feel watched—observed."
Rhyden closed the satchel.
"The crowns and the Sun Church are greedy. If they suspect the source of this violet surge lies here… they will assume we are connected."
Kael scoffed. "They always look for someone to blame for what they don't understand."
Marath's voice lowered. "Or someone to exploit."
Silence followed.
The kind that meant all three knew the same truth:
The world was circling them.
And the citadel was shifting in ways it never had before.
---
Then a shrill scream shattered the quiet.
All three elders snapped toward the hall just as a maid burst into the chamber—breathless, trembling, face white as frost.
"F-forgive me—Elders—please—Lady Mariel—something is happening to her!"
Marath dropped the satchel and rushed out without a word.
They followed.
---
They found her in her chamber, on the floor.
Mariel—Arden's mother.
She convulsed violently, back arching, limbs trembling. Her eyes were open but empty, pupils blown wide, as if looking at something that wasn't there. She clawed at her hair, her face, screaming with a voice that didn't sound like her own.
"Mariel!" Marath knelt beside her immediately.
She didn't respond.
Her screams rose, raw and animal, as blood trickled from her tear ducts, streaking crimson down her cheeks. She grabbed at her own skin, nails ripping against her face until Kael restrained her arms with trembling gentleness.
Then—just as suddenly as it began—her body went still.
Her breathing shallowed to faint gasps.
Her eyes stared forward, hollow. Empty.
Rhyden knelt beside Marath, his expression grim with recognition.
"It is a curse," he whispered.
Marath closed his eyes. "I feared that."
Kael looked between them. "Explain."
Rhyden spoke softly, voice weighed by centuries of lore.
"When the guardian is distressed… when its call is unanswered… or its trial disrupted… curses awaken. It has happened before in our lineage."
Marath nodded, voice rough. "The victim loses themselves piece by piece. Their mind hollows, their spirit dims. They linger for days… sometimes weeks… in a state between waking and dying."
Kael swallowed. "And the cure?"
Marath did not answer.
Rhyden did.
"There is none. The afflicted become living shells until their strength fades. Though their suffering can be eased with the right supplements."
The words settled like stone dust in a tomb.
Marath composed himself, hiding the tremor in his hands. "We will not let her slip away before Arden returns. It's the least we can do for Thaleus."
He turned to the maids, voice firm again.
"Take her to her bedding. Prepare warm cloths, soothing salves. No sharp objects in the room. Keep her from harming herself."
The maids nodded through tears and began lifting Mariel onto the mattress.
Marath rose.
"Rhyden, stay with her. Kael… come with me. I need the stabilizing potions from her chamber's vault."
"Elder Marethyn, And after?" Kael asked quietly.
Marath's eyes dimmed.
"After… we pray. And we hope the guardian wakes again."
He looked down the hall toward the Sanctum direction—its faint pulse weaker than he had ever felt.
"The citadel is trying to warn us."
The walls seemed to hum—low, uneasy.
-
Far to the south, beyond the swamp's stagnant waters and past the jagged cliffs where the forest thinned into mist, the land changed.
There, where Falren's wild woods met the first ancient borders of the southern feylands—where the trees grew tall enough to blot out the sun and the roots twisted like buried serpents—stood a large encampment draped in gold and white.
Banners of the Sun Church snapped in the wind. Rows of tents formed a disciplined grid, their ropes taut, their posts hammered into the earth with military precision. Lanterns burned with soft amber light, casting long shadows across the marshy ground.
At the camp's center stood a large pavilion of white silk trimmed with gold thread.
Inside, incense curled through the air, thick and sweet, masking the swamp's natural rot. At a polished wooden desk sat a man robed in immaculate white, embroidered with radiant sunbursts. Rings of gold adorned his fingers, each holding a sigil of high rank.
High Priest Caldris of the Sun Church.
Beside him stood two others:
A thin man with ink-stained gloves—the lead researcher, eyes sharp behind smudged spectacles.
And a broad-shouldered figure encased in radiant plate armor marked with sigils of authority—Sun Knight-Commander Varos.
Though Varos radiated power, discipline, and the hardened presence of a veteran killer, the true authority in the room was the priest seated at the desk.
Caldris did not look up as he spoke.
"How does our research progress?"
The researcher bowed his head.
"It is… challenging, High Priest, but we are making progress. We still require time to fully understand the source of the violet stones."
Caldris's fingers tapped the tabletop.
"I have already received multiple reports from our informants. They claim the densest concentration of this phenomenon centers around that citadel." His expression twisted faintly. "Around those… apostles."
"That aligns with our findings," the researcher replied. "All readings suggest the anomaly forms a kind of invisible cloud. A saturation. And the citadel is the epicenter."
Varos shifted, metal plates clicking softly.
"Our movements in Falren have already roused suspicion. At least one of the Vaelorians is tracking our weaker leads. Some of our scouting teams have gone missing."
His jaw tightened beneath his helm.
"These people are dangerous. Trained. And more importantly—they are openly protected by the Emperor."
Caldris laughed softly—a smooth, practiced sound without humor.
"The Emperor protects them in daylight. Not in shadows." His smile sharpened. "And if they push too far? We kill them. Quietly. Cleanly. Nothing interferes with the Sun Church's purpose."
He turned back to the researcher.
"What of the beast experiment?"
The man adjusted his papers quickly.
"Yes—our specimen. The serpent dwelling in the northern swamp."
He cleared his throat. "At first, we introduced only trace amounts of the substance into the waters. The reaction was promising. Heightened aggression. Mana distortion. But now…"
He hesitated.
Caldris raised a brow.
"We injected it directly, High Priest. With a more potent concentration."
"And?"
"The creature appears dormant… but its physiology is changing. Mana density has quadrupled. Bone growth patterns show expansion. We expect violent emergence once the transformation stabilizes."
Caldris rose smoothly from his chair, white robes flowing behind him.
"Good. Very good."
He strode toward the tent flap, the other two following.
Outside, the camp was alive with motion—soldiers sharpening blades, priests chanting quiet hymns, researchers carrying crates of sealed containers pulsing faintly with violet light. Rows of Sun Church infantry stood in formation, armor glinting beneath the pale daylight.
Caldris lifted a hand.
"Glory of the sun!" he called, voice ringing across the camp.
In perfect unison, the soldiers thundered back:
"Glory of the sun!"
Varos bowed his head. The researcher scribbled notes nervously.
Caldris smiled.
A cold smile.
A calculating one.
"Begin preparations," he murmured. "We move soon."