The air trembled with distant thunder as Syrith, Averith, and Roukhal stepped into the Heart Avenue—the wide boulevard that led from the Shadow District toward the fabled Storm Spire, Dystyx's tallest tower, crowned by the legendary Oath of the Storm-God. Lightning danced across the bruised sky, sheets of rain turning the cobblestones to rivers of silver.
Every lantern along Heart Avenue had been extinguished. Instead, carved storm-glyphs inlaid with electro-ore pulsed with faint blue light, guiding the trio toward their final trial. Syrith's heart thundered as he recalled Threvana's warning: the Oath was bound not only to his power, but to his very soul. Fail here, and the Crown of Storms would shatter.
They rounded the shattered fountain of the city's founder—a statue of a queen whose eyes once guided Dystyx's people now lay broken at her ankles. Ahead, the Storm Spire rose like a jagged finger piercing the clouds. A spiral staircase cut into its exterior, each step carved from living storm-stone.
"Only one path," Roukhal murmured, spear at the ready. "We ascend together."
Averith reached for Syrith's hand. "I will not let you face this alone."
He gave her a determined nod. "Nor I, you."
They climbed. With each step, the wind shrieked louder, and the storm-glyphs along the stair grew brighter, feeding power into the spire. Lightning arced from the clouds, striking the tower's apex and dancing down its flanks like silver serpents.
Halfway up, a deafening crack split the air. The stone beneath them shuddered—the Covenant's last guardians, the Storm Wardens, emerged from hidden crenellations. Cloaked in tattered banners, masks forged from thunder-metal, they wielded glaives that hummed with raw electricity.
Syrith halted. "Let their assault come." He pressed the sixth talisman at his chest; its threads flared with gorgeously woven light. "Our echoes are our strength."
The Wardens charged, their blades whistling blades of pure storm. Syrith met them head-on, unleashing a pulse of combined Echo energy that shattered the nearest glaive and sent its wielder flying back up the staircase. Roukhal and Averith flanked him—Averith's violet blade dancing through the rain, Roukhal's spear finding weaknesses in the next Warden's mask.
Still, the Wardens pressed in—tides of storm that threatened to overwhelm them. From the sky, a bolt struck the spire's bannister, sending shards of storm-stone raining down.
Syrith closed his eyes, remembering every shard he had reclaimed: ember-sorrow, moon-clarity, flame-vow, earth-resilience, wind-unity, shadow-truth. He felt their power coalesce around his heart, then burst outward in a globe of pale blue light that consumed the Wardens, cleansing their storm-mad fury.
With the last Warden felled, the staircase fell silent once more. Only the roar of the storm and their ragged breaths remained.
At the summit, a single chamber awaited: circular walls carved with living lightning, windows shattered to the sky, and at its center, the Oath of the Storm-God—a crystalline sphere suspended in midair, pulsing with raw, primordial power.
Syrith stepped forward, talismans glowing in unison. "This is the final bond," he said softly. "The vow I swore when I first ascended the Obsidian Spire as king."
A hum echoed through the chamber as the sphere's surface rippled, revealing inscribed words in the old tongue—the original oath of every Storm Sovereign:
"I bind my life to the storm, my word to the ages, and my heart to the people I serve."
A surge of wind and lightning enveloped Syrith. The sphere's power washed over him, dredging memories of his first coronation: the thunder-crash applause of the skies, the hopes of a grateful people, and the solemn vow he made before the throne. But then, he saw the betrayal—his own moment of hubris when he refused counsel, the poisoned chalice, the fall of Aether'Khal.
The Oath's voice thundered in his mind: "Reaffirm your promise, or be consumed by your past."
He steadied his breath, recalled Averith's unwavering trust and Roukhal's steadfast loyalty, and spoke the words of the ancient vow with crystal clarity:
"I bind my life to the storm, my word to the ages, and my heart to the people I serve—this day, and all days beyond."
The chamber exploded in light. Lightning cascaded from the sky into the crystalline sphere, which shattered in a thousand shining motes that spiraled into Syrith's talismans, fusing every reclaimed Echo into the final Crown of Storms—a circlet of living storm-gem that settled upon his brow.
In that instant, a deafening roar echoed across Dystyx as Velkyrion's hidden Covenants fell into chaos. Below, the city's skies cleared, revealing the first full sunrise Dystyx had seen in centuries.
Syrith stood at the Spire's apex, Crown of Storms glowing like a sun between his eyes. Beside him, Averith and Roukhal knelt in reverent awe.
He raised a storm-perfected hand to the horizon. "By every vow reclaimed, every bond reforged, and every heart restored, I claim the right to avenge my death—and to protect these realms from the traitor who stole my crown."
Thunder answered him, and silver lightning carved his words across the dawn sky: "Velkyrion, the Mask of Seven Bloods—your reckoning is come."
Thus ended the Ascension, and the final chapter of preparation before the war to dethrone the god-killer and reshape the fate of all worlds.