The road to Cindralis led downward—far below the cloud-line, into drowned lands where light dimmed and silence ruled. The Veiled Lowlands, once a fertile basin, were now a sprawling mire shrouded in mist and shadow. Sunken towers pierced the murky lakes like fingers grasping for air.
Alaric pulled his cloak tight, the air around them laced with forgotten Aether. Every breath tasted of rust and memory.
"Do you think the city still breathes beneath it all?" he asked.
Maeryn scanned the horizon. "If it does, it doesn't breathe like we do."
⚖ The Corebearer Orders & Ranks
As they approached the outer ring of the sunken city, Maeryn pulled a folded scroll from her satchel.
"You should know," she said. "The moment you lit your second Mark, you left the ranks of common Corebearers."
Alaric raised a brow.
She continued. "The Arcane Crucible System ranks Corebearers based on how many Marks they've bonded—and how their Aspects interact. It's not just power. It's stability, mastery, resonance."
She unrolled the parchment, revealing a glyph-marked pyramid:
Initiates: Those who've awakened their Core but bear no Mark.
Sparked: One Mark.
Bound: Two Marks (Rare).
Forged: Three Marks.
Ascendants: Four or more—believed mythical.
Crucible-Born: Chosen by a Relic, not through trials—dangerously unstable.
"You're a Bound now," Maeryn said, "but more importantly, your Marks—Flame and Stone—should repel each other. The fact they don't makes you something more."
Alaric let the words settle. He didn't feel more—he felt heavier. Older.
🌍 The Fractured Realms Stir
Beyond the sunken mire, rumors spread faster than crows.
In Vareth-Kai, the Iron-Lord of the Southern Host declared Alaric a rogue crucible-thief. In Teralune, Queen Ithalia convened a secret conclave of Corebearers from across the realms. The Azure Library, neutral for centuries, issued a sealed edict: "The Flame Walks. Stone Follows. Mist Lurks. Observe with care."
All eyes turned to the ruins of Cindralis.
The old world was moving again.
🧭 Descent into Cindralis
At dusk, Alaric and Maeryn found the threshold—half-sunken spires encircling a stone platform covered in barnacles and faded runes. Seryn's map pulsed faintly, illuminating a spiral glyph: the Seal of Mist.
"The city's submerged," Alaric said. "How do we even enter?"
Maeryn handed him a crystal vial—liquid silver swirled within. "Aether-breath. One dose each. Temporary, but enough."
They drank.
The moment the liquid touched his throat, Alaric's lungs shifted. His Core adjusted—breath came as if underwater was air.
Together, they dove.
🌫 Cindralis Sleeps
Below the surface, Cindralis stretched out in haunting beauty.
Cathedrals of bone-white coral had grown around sunken temples. Statues of old kings and Corebearer saints stared upward, their faces half-eroded. The streets still held carriages, windows, relics—life, frozen in time.
And then… a hum.
At the heart of the city stood the Crucible of Mist—an open-air forum beneath a dome of weeping glass. Runes floated freely in the water like drifting petals. And at the center: a pedestal, untouched, untouched and waiting.
But it was not unguarded.
From the shadows emerged a creature cloaked in translucent tendrils. Its form changed with every glance—child, elder, knight, beast. It spoke in many voices, layered:
"To claim Mist, you must forget truth. To wield Mist, you must remember lies."
🌒 The Trial of Memory
Alaric stepped forward. "I accept."
The world shifted.
He stood in a village long gone. His village. His younger self played near the riverbank, unaware of what would come. His mother sang. His father stood whole.
Then—the sky darkened. The Void came early.
Alaric screamed at his younger self, tried to warn him, but no one heard.
Over and over, the memory played—but wrong each time. Sometimes Maeryn died instead. Sometimes he killed his own father. Each lie twisted his heart tighter.
Mist fed on doubt.
But then—he let go.
"None of it changes what I choose now," he said.
His Core flared—not with fire, not with stone—but with mist. Gentle, cold, and wide as the sea.
🌫 The Third Mark
The guardian bowed. The pedestal opened. A pearl-like shard floated forward—etched in soft blue and silver.
Alaric reached out.
As the Mark fused into his Core, a ripple tore through the water—through the world.
Somewhere distant, Malrek stirred.
"Three Marks…" he said.
"The Titans truly rise again."