The surface skies over Aelthar darkened without warning. Clouds churned in unnatural patterns, spiraling like a vast, lidless eye watching the land below.
From the rift's jagged mouth, the first wave poured forth—creatures born of shadow and nightmare, their forms flickering between solid flesh and vapor. They moved with impossible speed, scaling cliffs and tearing through ancient wards that had stood for centuries.
In the city of Arvenholt, alarm bells rang. Guardians in silver armor rushed to the walls, bows drawn and magic sigils burning on their forearms. Arrows of light streaked through the air, cutting down the first line of horrors, but for each one slain, two more emerged from the Rift.
Liora stood atop the western battlement, her heart pounding. She recognized the signature of the power guiding the assault—Kaelen's presence was undeniable, pressing against her soul like an icy hand.
> "It's him," she murmured.
"Kaelen has become the Keeper."
Beside her, Captain Eryndor's face hardened. "Then our war has already changed. We're not just fighting the Abyss… we're fighting your friend."
Meanwhile, in the depths, Kaelen watched through the eyes of his creatures. Every scream, every clash of steel, every flash of magic reached him like whispers in the dark.
He felt no remorse—only the thrill of control, the intoxicating pull of dominance.
But deep in the cathedral, the faintest ripple stirred in the Heart's glow… a reminder that even the most perfect bindings can be broken, if the right hand dares to pull.
The siege had begun. And the Abyss would not rest until the surface knelt.
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