The moon hung low, veiled behind restless clouds, as night deepened over the Hollow Waste. Villagers clutched their children and whispered old prayers behind shuttered windows, speaking of beasts that moved like mist, faster than any eye could follow and stronger than any blade could wound.
At the edge of a smoldering village, Eryndor stood alone, surrounded by ruin. Ash drifted through the air like the final breath of something sacred. The homes were torn open, walls shredded by claw, the earth stained with stories too painful to retell.
His breath came in slow, sharp clouds. "These aren't ordinary beasts," he murmured. "The Ice Fountain's decay is waking something… unnatural."
From the shadows, footsteps approached. Zelaira joined him, her eyes sharp with thought and fear.
She knelt by a broken beam, running her fingers over deep gouges carved into the wood. Strange sigils, scorched and ancient, curled across the grain like silent warnings.
"And the markings," she said, her voice low, "they speak of a power trying to break free. Something that was never meant to wake."
Eryndor stared at the dark horizon. "We're running out of time."
In the stone-forged halls of the Soe stronghold, Vareon's voice struck like steel meeting stone.
"The council waits while the world burns. The prophecy demands action. I will answer."
Around him stood the warriors of Karradon, fierce and loyal, their honor sealed by the blood of centuries. Vareon's path was clear. Seize the Ice Fountain, rekindle its power, and shape a future worth surviving.
But beneath the banners of the ancient bloodlines, alliances were cracking. Old trust was unraveling into cold whispers, and rebellion stirred like smoke under locked doors.
Far below, in the deep vaults of Kirenholme, Zelaira moved through silence, her fingers gliding across stone etched with glowing script. The ancient words shimmered faintly beneath the flicker of torchlight, truths buried so long they had begun to hum with warning.
Later, beneath the stars, she stood with Eryndor, her words barely more than breath.
"There's a source of power beneath the Ice Fountain. Something hidden. The Watchers knew. They've kept it buried for centuries. If it falls into the wrong hands, it could end us all."
Eryndor met her gaze without hesitation. "Then we protect it. No matter the cost."
But as the night deepened, the past returned to him like smoke.
Eryndor's thoughts were haunted by vision. He saw Morvane, years younger, a man not yet carved by regret. He stood beside Selhara. Not only his brother's wife, but something more. Something forbidden. Their love had been a secret bound in silence, and that silence had left a wound across history.
Now, as the world bent under the weight of prophecy and ruin, Eryndor asked himself the question that burned deeper than any scar.
Could Morvane still be trusted?
In a chamber lit by a single candle, flickering in still air, Morvane stood before a figure cloaked in silver. The stranger's face was hidden, but their words carried the chill of inevitability.
"The Ice Fountain weakens," they said. "To save it, sacrifices must be made. And you, Morvane, must pay them."
Morvane did not blink. His voice held no fear, only resolve shaped by loss.
"If it means restoring balance," he answered, "then so be it."
Outside, the wind clawed across the Hollow Waste. Shadows stretched across the land like fingers reaching for a world already trembling.
The Ice Fountain pulsed faintly in its sacred chamber.
And all of Artantica waited in silence.
The thread that held the world together was fraying.
And none could say if it would hold.