The fires of the north spread faster than the empire could contain them. Villages once frozen for centuries now gleamed under morning skies. Frost cracked from the towers. The Crystalline Grid flickered, sputtering under the weight of its own cold perfection.
For the first time in an age, warmth traveled faster than fear.
But warmth drew eyes.
And deep beneath the capital — far below the throne, past the silent chambers and the frozen heart of the Grid — something long sealed began to breathe again.
The Empire's Core
The chamber was older than the empire itself.
At its center hung a sphere of glass, suspended in perfect stillness. Inside it burned a flame the color of memory — silver-gold, dim but eternal.
The last of the masters stood before it, a shape half human, half reflection, wrapped in the robes of a priest. His body shimmered like the inside of a broken mirror.
He placed one hand against the sphere.
