The world was quiet now.
Too quiet.
Zairo stood motionless in the heart of the ruined spire, the aftershock of the Soul Veins' awakening still pulsing through his bones. A strange warmth coiled in his chest—raw, electric, uncontainable. The runes beneath his feet had dimmed, but the change within him was irreversible.
He was no longer empty.
The altar was now cracked in half, but in its brokenness, it had given him something far greater than history:
a path,
a vision,
and a name.
He whispered it, barely breathing.
"Sira…"
He didn't know how he knew it—just as he didn't know how the Soul Veins had shown him her face, her fear, her fall. But the moment her image seared into his soul, a strange instinct took root:
She mattered.
More than vengeance.
More than legacy.
Somewhere out there, the girl named Sira was being hunted.
And if the heavens feared her...
Then so would he.
⚙️ Moments Later…
Zairo sheathed his father's blade, now glowing faintly at the hilt where his blood had marked it.
A low rumble echoed from the far end of the spire.
He turned.
From the shadows emerged a figure cloaked in tattered robes, a twisted wooden staff in one hand, and a dozen bone charms jangling from his belt.
"Didn't think anyone was mad enough to bleed on that altar," the man rasped. "Not in this age."
Zairo didn't flinch. "Who are you?"
The man stopped a few feet away, revealing a face with one eye and one smile.
"Some call me a prophet. Others, a liar. You can call me… Varn."
Zairo's gaze sharpened. "You were watching."
"I've been watching this place for years. But I didn't expect you."
Varn's remaining eye gleamed. "You're not just anyone, boy. You're Ashborne. You carry the mark of the Veins. You felt the call, didn't you?"
Zairo clenched his fists. "I saw her."
"You saw her?" Varn's smile vanished. "Then it's begun again…"
Silence stretched.
"What is she?" Zairo asked. "Why did the Soul Veins show her to me?"
Varn hesitated, then spoke softly, as if fearing the heavens might overhear.
"She is the Woven Flame—a thread woven into fate by the first gods and locked away in flesh. If she dies, the Loom resets. If she lives…"
"The Loom breaks."
Zairo's heart pounded.
"And that," Varn said, "is why Heaven fears her. Why they'll burn every world to erase her. And why they'll come for you next."
🌑 That Night…
Zairo sat alone outside the spire, beneath a fractured sky.
The stars above looked more distant now—as if Heaven itself had drawn away in fear or in fury. The air was colder. The world… quieter.
His eyes burned with resolve.
He traced the name "Sira" into the dirt with his finger. It glowed faintly—his Soul Veins
reacting not to the ground, but to the intent behind it.
"I don't know who you are yet," he whispered to the wind.
"But I will find you. I will protect you. Even if I have to rip open the sky."
The glow faded.
He rose to his feet.
And far, far above him, hidden beyond the Veil of Stars…
a pair of golden eyes opened.