The skies had barely healed from the trembling when the next wound opened.
In the courts of nobility, during a quiet dinner, a marquess rose to speak. His voice, once smooth with practiced elegance, cracked—then deepened, warped. His goblet shattered in his hand as black veins spidered outward from his eyes, pulsing like living roots. Gasps filled the chamber, but before the guards could move, the marquess spoke:
> "The Eye… watches. The Eye… chooses. The Eye… remembers."
The words weren't his own. They came in a rhythm older than kingdoms, spoken in the Way of Old.
On the streets, a common beggar convulsed, then laughed with a voice not his own. Children fled as his eyes filled with the same dark veins, and his tongue twisted to speak hymns no priest had taught:
> "From shadow unto blood, from blood unto fire… the Eye is open."
Panic spread. Some called it sickness, others madness. But the scholars who still remembered scraps of forbidden text knew the truth: possession.
And worse—there was no pattern. Nobles at banquets, farmers in fields, priests in prayer, thieves in alleys… all were claimed without warning. The Black Eye did not discriminate.
Some collapsed dead after speaking. Others stood frozen, whispering the Way of Old until their throats bled. And a few—too few—smiled, as though they had been waiting for this moment.
In the palaces, even kings felt unease. "Why do my subjects speak in tongues older than history?" one demanded. No advisor had an answer.
But across every nation, every city, the message repeated, always ending the same:
> "The Eye… has found its vessels."