Kaelien knelt before the Flame-Circle, an assembly of robed mages whose faces flickered in the dancing firelight of the Hearth Temple. Incense curled through the air, thick with memory and judgment.
"So you spared them," said Maeril, the youngest voice among them, though still older than Kaelien by decades.
"They weren't attacking," Kaelien said. "And they were watching the Rift."
Another voice, old and deep, crackled like burning wood. "Compassion in war is a blade turned inward."
Kaelien stood slowly. "Is it compassion to see your enemy looking at the same storm you fear?"
A long pause followed.
"It may be time," Maeril said softly, "to stop calling them enemy and start calling them obstacle."
Kaelien frowned. "That's a worse name."
She smiled faintly. "And truer."
Later, Kaelien wandered the Grove of Whispers, a clearing where magical ley-lines surfaced like glowing roots beneath the earth. He touched one stone, and images surged behind his eyes—flashes of fire, shadow, and frost.
And for a moment… he saw her. The Velmoran.
Her blade glowing. Her eyes not hateful—just tired.
He stepped back, breath ragged. The magic pulsed.
The Rift was speaking.
And it was saying something is coming.