The village had barely recovered from the eerie calm that followed the battle in Eldrath's ruins when word came — ominous and swift — that the Pantheon Council was mobilizing.
Lyria stood at the center of the crowded tavern, her gaze sharp as she addressed a gathering of warriors, merchants, and outcasts. Aeron listened quietly from the shadows, the weight of expectation settling heavy on his shoulders.
"The Council fears what Aeron represents," she said. "A god who has fallen and yet stands again. Their silence is broken by the tremors of war."
Outside, the wind howled through the streets, carrying whispers of betrayal and looming conflict. Aeron felt the celestial power within him pulse, as if responding to the growing storm.
That night, alone beneath the fractured sky, Aeron wrestled with memories slowly returning like shards of broken glass — faces of allies turned enemies, oaths sworn and shattered, and a promise that had once bound him to a destiny greater than any god's throne.
He understood now that his path was no longer one of exile or survival. It was a call to arms — to reclaim what was stolen, to confront those who had condemned him, and to forge a future from the chaos.
The storm was coming. And Aeron would stand at its eye.