The trees were moving again. Not by wind, but by something else. The leaves shook without reason, and the air felt heavier with every breath they took.
Rye gripped the hilt of the sword, but it still felt like it wasn't hers. Ever since that strange man on the cliff showed up with the blue stone, nothing had felt normal. Elian was ahead, leading the group deeper into the forest. He didn't look back. His hand was still glowing faintly, clutching the emerald that had saved them… for now.
"I think it's reacting," he said. "To something far away. Or… maybe close."
"Reacting to what?" Rye asked.
Elian didn't answer. He only winced, as if something sharp had poked the inside of his skull. He stumbled for a second and leaned on a tree. The emerald pulsed again. Blue light spilled between his fingers.
"Wait," Rye said. "You okay?"
"I—I don't know. It's like… like something is waking up," he muttered. "Something inside this stone. And it wants to find the rest of itself."
Behind them, the forest cracked. Not a branch breaking. Not an animal. This sound had weight, like a spell being torn open.
They turned. The light behind the trees shimmered, like glass was bending, and out of that shimmer stepped something new.
Not a beast. Not a soldier.
A figure, tall and thin, wearing a black coat with silver patterns along the sleeves. Its face was hidden by a smooth white mask, and strange red lines floated in the air around it like living threads.
Elian whispered, "Concord… but different."
The figure took a step forward. The ground under its foot didn't crunch, it whispered. Magic flowed from its steps like mist.
"We need to run," Rye said quickly. She didn't wait for a vote this time. She grabbed Elian and took off into the brush, the others close behind.
Branches slapped their faces. Roots caught their boots. But they ran.
Behind them, the masked figure didn't chase on foot. It just… vanished.
And then reappeared. A few meters ahead.
They slid to a stop. "How"
It raised a hand. The red threads in the air spun into a net.
Rye swung the sword out of instinct. For a second, it flared red, just like before, but the glow flickered.
"No," she whispered. "Not now."
The red light went out. The sword returned to dull metal.
Elian shoved the emerald forward. "Back off!" he shouted.
The blue gem exploded with light, not force, but enough to scatter the threads. The Seeker staggered back, only for a second, before vanishing again.
They used that moment.
They ran down a slope, deeper, until they found the mouth of a dry cave half-hidden by hanging moss. It wasn't deep but it would have to do.
They ducked inside. Their chests heaved. Their hands shook.
Rye sat near the wall, breathing hard. Elian leaned forward, gripping the stone.
"What was that thing?" Rye asked.
"A Seeker," Elian said. "Not just Concord… it's worse. They send those to follow magic… like bloodhounds."
"It was tracking us through the emerald?"
Elian nodded slowly. "Yeah. Or… maybe through something else too. Maybe the sword."
Rye blinked. "My sword?"
"It glowed again. Not fully, but it reacted."
"But it doesn't accept me," she whispered. "It never has."
Elian looked up, tired. "Maybe it's not about you anymore. Maybe it's reacting to something bigger. Something coming."
And somewhere far away, not in Kaelthar, not in Aeloria, but within the hidden folds of the Veil, Pod Ten let out a soft, mechanical hiss.
Inside the glass coffin, the man did not move. His body was still. Pale, untouched by time. But the magic around him had begun to shift.
Tiny strands of blue and red light, barely visible, pulsed around the pod like veins of energy slowly remembering their purpose.
The air in the chamber thickened.
A rune etched on the side of the pod, one long thought inert, flickered once, then went dark again.
He remained in stasis.
But the First Spell had stirred, not fully awake, not yet whole, but aware.
•••
…Nytherion…
Somewhere deep beyond the reach of time and stars, past stone, past void, the Seeker stood in a chamber of mirrors.
Reflections of nothing flickered across the glass-like walls. Time didn't flow here. It waited.
The Seeker's mask peeled open at the mouth, not with a hinge, but like paper unfolding in water. Blue vapor escaped. A circle of robed figures stood around it, shrouded in shifting cloaks of smoke and layered silk. Their faces were hidden behind smooth silver masks, shaped with runes too old to name.
The Seeker bowed its head. Then spoke.
Awhisper. Notmadeofsound.
The language of Nytherion was not meant for human ears. But the meaning was clear in pulse and rhythm.
"Thevesselevades.
Theshardinterferes.
Eachtime Istrike, thebluelightconsumesmyreach.
Thespellrespondstohim, notme.
Iamdimmedinitspresence."
One of the elders stepped forward. She moved like fog. Her voice slid into the chamber low, elegant, sharp at the edges.
"Theemeraldresistssuppression.
Thatisexpected.
Itsoriginwasnotclean."
Another elder raised his hand slowly. His mask was different, three-eyed, with a fracture down its side. When he spoke, his words dragged across the space like grinding stone.
"Weknewtheshardwouldcalltothecore.
Andnow… itdoes.
PodTenisshifting."
A quiet moment passed. Then the oldest among them, voice thin as ash, made the final decree:
"Enoughtrials.
Enoughdelay.
Sendtheonetheycannotturnaway.
Theblood-bound."
The Seeker's head tilted, slow and curious.
"You mean… him?"
"Yes," said the elder. "Send him."