The ruins of Cael'dun smoldered behind them. Even in retreat, the shadow left behind by Malrek and the Voidbound still clung to the stone like rot.
Alaric sat by a dying campfire, staring into the embers. His Gauntlets rested beside him, cracked from overuse, their once-bright flame now a dull glow. The battle had drained him—and not just of strength.
It had shaken him deeper, to the very heart of his Core.
"I've seen relics twisted before," Maeryn said quietly, returning from a short patrol, her cloak dusted with ash. "But not like that. That one… was feeding off something ancient."
Alaric didn't respond immediately. He pulled a scorched strip of cloth from the remains of his shoulder guard and let it burn in the fire.
"They knew I was coming," he said. "Malrek… he called me 'the Flame's chosen.'"
"He wasn't wrong," Maeryn replied, kneeling beside him. "You're not just another Corebearer. That Crucible didn't just grant you a spark—it awakened something older."
Alaric's eyes flickered. "What do you mean?"
She hesitated. Then pulled a small scroll from her satchel. The parchment was faded, its script inked in twisting silver glyphs. She unrolled it gently, revealing a circular diagram with six central runes: Fire, Wind, Stone, Mist, Light… and Void.
"These are the Primal Aspects," she said. "Each rooted in the World-Core. The Crucibles were created to channel them safely. But the truth is, they weren't designed by mortals."
Alaric looked up sharply. "You mean—?"
Maeryn nodded. "The gods forged them. Or... what we once called gods. Flame, Sky, Deep, and others. Long ago, each one left a relic behind, a pure Core of their essence. And one of them—Flame—is inside you."
The fire crackled in the silence that followed.
Alaric stood, walking toward the edge of the camp where the land dipped into craggy cliffs. The horizon shimmered with distant, shifting light—remnants of corrupted Aether storms.
"If that's true," he said, "then the Voidbound aren't just trying to destroy the world. They're trying to… unmake the divine."
Maeryn joined him. "That's why we need to reach the Crucible of Stone. Deep beneath the Shattered Range, there's a sealed sanctum. The Ember Order once called it the 'Vault of Foundations.' It holds one of the six Relic Marks—and maybe answers we're not ready to hear."
"Then we go there," Alaric said. "The sooner we learn what we carry, the better chance we have of stopping them."
As they turned back toward the path, the earth trembled faintly beneath their feet.
Not thunder. Not weather.
A voice.
A whisper in the stone.
☽ Later That Night...
Deep within the Shattered Range, far from the broken surface of Cael'dun, something stirred.
Ancient chains shifted.
A seal cracked.
And from the deepest dark, a forgotten creature opened eyes of stone and fire.
☼ The Next Morning
The journey into the mountains was slow. The trails were narrow, half-buried in rubble from old wars and natural disasters. As they ascended, the air grew thin and heavy with pressure—Aether buildup.
"Feel that?" Maeryn said, pausing near a jagged cliff.
Alaric nodded. "The Aether here's… dense. Tense."
"This place hasn't breathed in centuries. It's holding power. Waiting."
They reached the entrance by midday—a vast stone face carved into the mountain itself. The mouth of a god, cracked and half-buried by time.
Maeryn traced her hand along the arch. "The sigils are dormant. We'll need to reactivate them to open the Vault."
Alaric stepped forward. His Core pulsed as he touched the stone.
The mark of Flame glowed on his palm—and the gate responded.
With a grinding roar, the mouth of the mountain opened.
Inside, darkness rushed forward like a breath exhaled after eons.
And from within, a voice echoed.
"Flame returns. Let the Trial begin."