The Voidgate shimmered like a mirror between stars, its surface dancing with ripples of silver light. Jareth stepped through, his holy form glowing with the merged essence of divine flame and dragon soul. Behind him flowed the presence of the Goddess Astoria, her footsteps echoing without sound, trailing strands of golden time across the windswept stone.
They returned not to ruin—
—but to sacred ground.
The Second Tower, once a throne of despair and corruption under Romelo's dark reign, now radiated with divine stillness. Its once-blasted peak was encircled by floating rings of crystallized light, sacred sigils orbiting the tower like moons. At its base sprawled ruins: the remnants of a lost city long buried in sorrow.
This place, once called Sylvaranthe, had been abandoned for centuries. A silent grave beneath the Holy Lands.
Jareth walked to the edge of the crumbled cliffs overlooking the remains. Vines had overtaken broken stones. Wind carried the scent of ancient trees—but no laughter, no voices, no footsteps of the living.
Until now.
Astoria raised her hands. Her hair flowed like threads of starlight, her robes shimmering with the dawn of forgotten years. Her voice was not spoken—but felt, within the soul.
"Let time remember what was lost."
She extended her hand, and the air began to glow.
A pulse echoed outward—a wave of holy aura that poured across the dead city. Where it touched, decay reversed. Stone lifted and reformed. Crumbled arches returned to grandeur. Fallen towers reassembled themselves, spires rising once more to the heavens.
The ground itself responded—paths of light carved themselves into the soil, laying roads of glowing silver-veined marble. Lanterns of sun-crystal ignited along the streets, casting soft golden warmth.
The flora returned not as weeds—but as living architecture.
Massive trees unfurled like sleeping titans, their branches carving through the skyline. Homes and platforms were suspended within canopies, connected by glowing vine-bridges and hanging stairways. Blossoms the size of shields pulsed with natural mana, used as conduits for magical transport.
The centerpiece stood closest to the Second Tower:A colossal glass-covered tree, its trunk thick as a castle's foundation, its bark shimmering with blue-gold light. The transparent canopy encased its massive crown like a living dome, shaped to follow the natural curvature of the tree's branches. Inside, walls of curved glass revealed towering bookshelves, glowing with enchanted tomes and ancient lore.
This was once the Council Tree of Sylvaranthe, home of knowledge, diplomacy, and history.
Now, it had returned.
And then—the souls came.
From the glowing soil and restored fountains, from the roots of trees and the branches of towers, they emerged. Shimmering lights formed into bodies—men and women, young and old, returning from a slumber beyond death.
Their first breaths were of awe. Their first thoughts—confusion.
The dead had been given flesh once more.
Among them appeared the long-lost races of the land:
High Elves, regal and graceful, in silk robes of leafwoven thread, their auras naturally infused with light magic.
Dark Elves, pale-skinned and silver-eyed, bearing quiet wisdom and ancient tattoos of exile.
Mountain Elves, wide-shouldered and strong-boned, garbed in stoneweave armor, already inspecting walls and supports.
Sky-Elves, rare and slender, with gossamer wings and luminous eyes, landing gently on rooftops as if weightless.
A few crystal-flesh golems, small families of Fey-kin with luminous antlers, and two Ashen Mystics—robed spellbinders from an extinct desert order—blinking into existence.
They looked around, terrified and overwhelmed. They saw their homes restored—but no time had passed for them. Their last memories were screams, death, fire.
And now?
The sky was calm.
A divine warmth bathed the air.
Astoria stood beside Jareth, her hands folded.
Jareth stepped forward and rose above the crowds, golden wings spreading behind him. His godly form shone like a beacon—scales of radiant silver and celestial fire, his presence silencing even the most chaotic murmurs.
He spoke—and his voice carried like thunder through crystal.
"People of Sylvaranthe—rise."
Thousands looked up. Breathless. Silent.
"You were taken by war. Cast into death by forces you could not fight. But today, the Divine has spoken."
He gestured beside him.
"Goddess Astoria, Weaver of Time, has restored your souls, your homes, your honor. By her sacrifice, you live again."
He lowered his tone—not with volume, but power.
"Yet this is not the end. This is the beginning. The world remains in peril. The Evil Gods still hunt us. But now we rise—not as survivors—but as protectors."
He raised one fist to his heart.
"Pray. Pray not in fear, but in strength. Let your hearts return the light to our Goddess. Her power wanes with every miracle. Only through your devotion may her grace continue to flow."
A quiet ripple spread.
One person knelt.
Then ten.
Then thousands.
Hands clasped. Eyes closed. Voices trembling—whispers at first, then louder, stronger. The city began to glow again, a return stream of power flowing into Astoria. Her skin brightened, her steps lighter. She smiled—but her eyes remained humble.
Jareth heard Bahamut's voice within him once more.
"Nerina and Lyra will be happy… Their people stand once more. Perhaps… their families do too."
Jareth looked across the crowd—at the returning dark elves, the high-elves, the half-forgotten bloodlines now born anew.
He stepped forward.
"Now hear this."
His voice once more turned to command.
"This city stands upon a holy foundation. But we must not rely only on miracles. We must act."
He pointed toward the great glass tree.
"Choose two leaders among you. One for military command, one for civil development. Let them meet me inside the Council Tree, where we will begin plans to rebuild our strength."
His golden wings spread once more.
"Begin assembling an army. Fortify the defenses. Awaken your guilds, your smiths, your mages. We are twenty thousand strong—and we will not fall again."
Cheers erupted this time—not hesitant, but real. People stood taller. Families embraced. Soldiers gripped hilts. The wind shifted.
The city was no longer a ruin.
It was a citadel.
Sylvaranthe, the Crown of the Elven Realms, had returned.
And beneath the canopy of the Tree of Time, a new chapter was about to begin.