The system blared again:
[Temporal Stress Threshold Exceeded.]
[Fragment Synchronization Possible.]
Ashwing coughed. "Tell me you're not thinking of syncing with that!"
"I'm not," Lindarion said. "It's offering itself."
Indeed, the barrier of his mana wasn't breaking, it was absorbing. Each pulse of light that struck it became information, memories, emotion. He could feel it: the divine panic, the Demi-Human rebellion, the desperate creation of seals to keep gods from collapsing upon their children.
Images surged through his mind.
A young elven priestess etching runes into the bark of the first Tree.
A serpent-shaped god, the same presence as Veyrath, standing before a council of flame and light, his scales cracked, his eyes defiant.
A figure cloaked in void, watching it all unfold.
Then, fire.
The entire plain erupted in golden conflagration. Not destructive, but cleansing. The last memory of divinity burning itself to seal what could not be destroyed.
