Far beneath the radiant marble towers of Aetherreach, where light could no longer reach, something stirred.
In the heart of the ruined catacombs—forgotten tunnels carved long before the founding of the academy—a circle of cloaked figures stood in silence. Their faces were hidden behind bone-forged masks, their bodies draped in ashen robes that moved like smoke in still air.
At the center of the circle, a massive tree stood.
It was not of Elyskar.
Its bark pulsed like veins, dark and slick, and its roots writhed into the stone floor like hungry tendrils. From its gnarled branches hung the rotten remnants of once-beautiful fruit—now twisted and blackened with corruption.
A voice broke the silence. Low. Calm. Calculated.
"The preparations are complete."
Another stepped forward. His mask bore the sigil of a broken star.
"The Pillars are still resisting."
A chuckle echoed, cold and hollow. "They will break. One by one. The apple distorts, not just flesh… but mind. Already, the Fire begins to flicker."
The others murmured in agreement.
"Tomorrow, the tournament begins," the leader continued. "Aetherreach will be wide open. Their eyes turned skyward, cheering. They won't see the roots twisting beneath their feet."
One acolyte hesitated. "And the boy?"
The chamber chilled.
The voice replied, slowly. "Let him play his part. For now. The wings he bears are not yet strong. But when they are… he'll either serve the fall, or be consumed by it."
Silence returned like a closing shroud.
Above, the academy bustled with excitement. Students practiced final spells, instructors finalized the arena enchantments, and nobles arrived in elegant carriages lined with their house crests.
No one knew that darkness had already entered the gates.
That beneath the very foundation of their grand capital, something ancient and vengeful watched from the shadows.
Not for sport.
Not for glory.
But for ruin.