The forest burned without fire.
Leaves curled into ash without a flicker. Bark blackened from the inside out, turning to hollow shells that whispered as they crumbled. Even the air trembled not with heat, but with judgment.
At the edge of Velith'Seren, where trees still dared to stand, the earth split with slow, deliberate cracks. White light bled from the wounds like marrow from shattered bone.
And from that light, he came.
Not fast. Not loud.
But absolute.
The Vesperborn moved through the trees like a cathedral through fog heavy, silent, reverent in his destruction. The ground recoiled beneath his steps. The roots did not dare touch him.
He wore robes of white and gold, scorched and frayed at the edges. Beneath the folds, iron plating covered his limbs etched with runes that pulsed with Sanctum flame. Each footstep left behind a blackened sigil that pulsed once… then vanished into the earth like it had never existed.
His arms were wrapped in bandages, knotted like a priest's vestments, and burned with holy glyphs that crawled slowly over his skin like living scripture. But his face…
There was no face.
Only a mask. Bone-white. Smooth. Seamless. A single, vertical brand burned over where the heart would be shaped like an eye, closed.
Yet he saw everything.
Behind him, Sanctum zealots moved in formation torchbearers, wordsmiths, and faithbound warriors. Their eyes glowed faintly with gold, their mouths repeating the Litany of Purge over and over, like gears in a broken machine.
The Vesperborn raised a hand.
They stopped.
The forest ahead the Wyrd sanctuary, its seals and shadows breathed. The energy was ancient. Trembling. Afraid.
His voice was a whisper made of stone.
"This grove remembers the unclean."
He stepped forward.
The tree nearest him spontaneously rotted, black veins spidering across its bark, leaves falling upward in defiance of gravity before shattering mid-air like glass.
Below, in the sanctuary…
Auren jolted upright.
"Something's here."
Kaelen didn't speak. He already knew.
The very roots around them had gone still. The ley-heart at the center of the chamber dimmed, as if trying to hide.
Kaelen reached for his blade.
"We can't hold this place if he comes through," he said.
Auren stood. Blood had dried on his side, but his stance was steadier now. "We don't have to hold it."
Kaelen looked over. "What do you mean?"
"I can collapse the seal. Sink the sanctuary. Erase the Wyrd-thread entirely."
Kaelen's jaw clenched. "And kill yourself doing it?"
Auren smiled faint, tired. "I said I can. I didn't say I would."
Outside…
The Sanctum torchbearers began advancing, whispering benedictions.
Some of them were crying.
One, barely sixteen, whispered through tears, "May this place be cleansed. May their sins be ash. May the old gods forget their names."
The Vesperborn did not pray.
He lifted one hand.
And from his palm bloomed a sphere of white flame, silent and slow yet somehow heavier than any fire should be.
He turned his head toward the sanctuary entrance.
And stopped.
A pause. Stillness.
Then…
He spoke.
"Kaelen."
The sound echoed downward through the trees, through the roots, into the sanctuary like a blade dragging through stone.
"Auren."
Auren staggered, eyes wide.
Kaelen's voice cracked. "He knows us."
The ley-heart flared once, like a final breath.
The entrance stair split open as if pushed from above. Light poured into the chamber, and with it came smoke, ash, and the scent of holy fire.
And then…
A shape descended the stairs.
Graceful.
Impossibly tall.
Unstoppable.
The Vesperborn stepped into the Wyrd's heart.
He raised his mask toward the brothers.
And for the first time in years…
He spoke a third name.
A name only they knew.
"Sareth."
Kaelen staggered.
Auren's face went pale.
"He was dead."
"We buried him ourselves."
The Vesperborn took another step forward.
His voice was soft. Kind. Cruel.
"You buried a body."
"But the flame never dies."