The storm within the Ruins had ended.
Draven stood in silence, the lotus burning faintly over his chest, Feyra and Stonehide flanking him, both radiant in their newfound Nobility. The air was heavy, not with threat but with aftermath — as though the very earth waited.
Then the ripple spread.
It started as a tremor in his bones, a heartbeat that was not his own. Emerald light surged outward, spilling from the Codex, racing through stone and soil. It tore beyond the chamber, beyond the Ruins, across the breadth of Theia.
Kaelith Veynar froze.
In the Dominion war camp, slave marks across beasts flared violently. For a breathless instant, the chains faltered. Beasts snarled, eyes wide, rebellion clawing at their throats before the brands reasserted their grip.
Kaelith's own mark throbbed. His hand pressed against it, veins pulsing green fire.
He looked skyward as an emerald shimmer bled across the clouds.
"Something has touched the root," he muttered, unease hardening into rage. "The Ruins… someone dares."
He snapped to his captains. "Send scouts. If there is a fool inside, I want their ashes."
But beneath his fury, fear gnawed — the Dominion had not made those chains. They had only inherited them.
The night sky rippled above the League encampment, auroras of green flame unfurling like banners across the heavens. The flickering light painted tents and armor in shifting hues, casting long shadows that moved like restless spirits.
Lysara Valenne pushed aside the flap of her command tent, stepping into the strange glow. Her pale hair shimmered faintly in the emerald wash, as though she herself had been touched by the storm. Soldiers nearby froze mid-step, staring skyward, their murmurs hushed by awe and fear alike.
Cael Brennor emerged beside her, broad shoulders tense, his sword half-drawn as if against an unseen foe. The reflection of the aurora burned in his eyes, turning steel-grey to molten green.
Around them, beasts tethered to stakes or lying in rest began to stir. A Servitor hound lifted its head, scars sealing as fur grew clean over wounds. A great elk-beast snorted, its breath misting emerald as its bowed legs straightened. Even the weakest of creatures inhaled deeper, their ribs swelling with renewed strength.
The men whispered. A miracle. Witchcraft. A curse.
But it was not only beasts. A wounded scout, bandages dark with blood, gasped as his flesh knit beneath the wrappings. He cried out, clutching at his chest, then fell silent as the pain ebbed, replaced by wonder. Others reached for their scars, their burns, their broken fingers — all fading, all closing.
It was as if an unseen hand had passed across the camp, sweeping away the weight of despair. The air felt different. Lighter. Alive.
Cael exhaled slowly, the grip on his blade loosening. "An omen," he said, voice steady but hollow. He could not find better words.
Lysara's eyes narrowed, her hand rising to her breast. Beneath her fingers, she felt it — a warmth, faint but undeniable, pulsing as though a second heartbeat had joined her own. For a moment her breath caught, then she whispered, reverent:
"No. Not omen. Awakening."
The warmth faded, but its memory remained, burning into her soul. She turned her gaze skyward again, emerald fire reflected in her eyes.
"Life itself stirred," she murmured, her voice carrying across the camp. Men and beasts alike turned to listen, drawn by her certainty. "And it was no Dominion trick."
Silence followed. Not fearful silence, but the silence of an army realizing the world had shifted beneath their feet.
The ripple did not stop with men.
Deep in the jungles, the Forest King raised its crowned head as vines bloomed wildly, flowers bursting in moonless dark.
Across vast rivers, the River Lord coiled through waters turned emerald, currents alive with strange glow.
On cragged peaks, the Mountain Tyrant bellowed, its roar shaking cliffs as prey beasts straightened beneath the weight of new vitality.
Each felt it. The Verdant Warden's call had echoed, and none could ignore it.
The Magma Drake
Beneath a mountain of fire, embers stirred.
The Magma Drake opened one molten eye, the cavern trembling as its massive form shifted. Scales like cooled basalt cracked, spilling sparks as wings twitched after decades of stillness.
The ripple had reached it.
It snarled, the sound rolling through stone like thunder. Lava spilled down cavern walls, rivers of fire breaking loose. For the first time in an age, the Overlord's gaze sharpened beyond sleep.
Beyond Theia
The ripple crossed oceans, forests, deserts, and cities. It touched beasts chained in Dominion pens, who growled against masters. It brushed through League strongholds, where banners swayed as though caught by unseen winds.
It did not stop.
It crossed Theia.
For the Codex was not of this world, but of the stars themselves — a fragment older than men, older than beasts. Its resonance spilled beyond the fabric of Theia, into silence that could not be measured, into places no tongue had named.
And beyond that silence—
Back in the Ruins, Draven opened his eyes. He had felt it — threads stretching beyond him, across Theia, tugging at something vast. He could not name it, but instinct whispered: the world had heard his vow.
Feyra pressed against him, Stonehide rumbled low, both steady. The Codex floated before him, its pages dim but alive, as though waiting for his next step.
Draven exhaled, steadying himself.
"The world felt it," he murmured. His lotus pulsed once, heartbeat strong.
"And now, it will answer."