The horizon of Aethralun shuddered under the pressure of the Rift. There was no warning, no subtlety—one moment, the Rift was a calm sea, and the next, it split open with a resounding crack.
Dark, twisted ships poured through, formed from the remains of dying worlds. Some resembled grotesque skeletal fish, others terrifying leviathans of warped metal and bone, bristling with ominous null-energy harpoons.
But what came behind the ships was the real threat: the Weavers. Cloaked in shifting veils of broken memory, their presence bled reality, creating a visceral wrongness that made the very waters of the Rift tremble.
The outer defenses of Aethralun began to stir, activating harmonic turrets and summoned Choir Guardians, but they were not enough. Not yet.
Leon stood at the center of the Nexus, his fists clenched, power simmering beneath his skin. His eyes flashed with a dangerous light as he addressed his team.
