A week passed in a blur of relentless training. Astraeus's life settled into a new, grueling rhythm. Mornings were spent in the hushed, reverent silence of the restricted library, his mind a sponge for the forbidden knowledge contained within its ancient tomes. Afternoons were a symphony of pain and progress in the training yard, Marcus's sharp critiques and Kha'Zul's relentless pushing driving him to new heights of physical and magical proficiency. Evenings were for solitary practice, the combat forms becoming less of a conscious effort and more of an instinct, his control over his essence growing more fluid, more intuitive with each passing day.
He was getting stronger. He could feel it, a deep, thrumming power that was becoming a part of him. But the world outside the guild hall was not standing still.
On the eighth day, an urgent summons echoed through the guild. All mages of Apprentice rank and higher were to report to the main hall immediately. Astraeus arrived to find a tense, crowded room. He saw his teammates—Darius, Lyra, and Thomas—standing together, their expressions grim. He saw Garrett, his arm in a sling but his eyes clear and determined. He saw Marcus and Helena, their faces etched with a gravity that spoke of a looming crisis.
Guildmaster Crane stood before a large map of the region, his face a mask of grim authority. The map was dotted with red pins, a rash of crimson that spread across the familiar landscape.
"Thank you for coming," Crane began, his voice cutting through the low murmur of the crowd. "I'll be direct. We have a crisis. Over the past week, rift activity has increased by five hundred percent. We are receiving reports of dimensional disturbances from seven different locations within a hundred-mile radius of Thornhaven."
A wave of shock and disbelief rippled through the assembled mages. Seven rifts. It was unprecedented.
"Some of these are minor, temporary breaches that will likely close on their own," Crane continued, his voice a steady, calming presence in the face of the rising panic. "But three are confirmed stable rifts with active Voidborn presence. We need to address them immediately, before they become nests like the one in the Blackwood."
He gestured to the map, his finger tracing a triangle of red pins. "Riverside Village, forty miles south. The abandoned mines near Greystone, sixty miles east. And the Merchant's Road waystation, thirty miles north. Each location has reported Voidborn sightings. Each is a potential foothold for a larger invasion."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the faces of his mages, letting the weight of his words sink in. "We do not have enough Master-level mages to handle all three threats simultaneously. Therefore, we are forming mixed teams, each led by a Master or a Senior Journeyman. This is not ideal. It is stretching our resources to the breaking point. But it is necessary."
This is it, Kha'Zul's voice was a low, grim hum in Astraeus's mind. The beginning of the end. The barriers are failing faster than even I anticipated. This is the point where the threats outpace your ability to respond.
Crane's voice cut through his dark thoughts. "Team assignments are as follows. Team One, led by Master Helena Voss, will handle Riverside Village. Team Two, led by Master Instructor Marcus Thorne, will take the Greystone mines. Team Three, led by Senior Journeyman Darius Cole, will investigate the Merchant's Road waystation."
Astraeus's heart skipped a beat. Darius was skilled, a natural leader, but a stable rift was a Master-level threat. They were putting a heavy burden on his shoulders.
"Team assignments will be posted on the board," Crane concluded. "Check your assignments, gather your gear, and be ready to depart within the hour. No heroics. Your mission is assessment and containment. If the threat is beyond your capabilities, you are to retreat and report. Understood?"
A chorus of "Yes, sir" echoed through the hall.
"Good. Dismissed."
The crowd surged toward the assignment board. Astraeus found his name quickly, his heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and dread.
TEAM THREE - MERCHANT'S ROAD WAYSTATION
•Leader: Darius Cole (Senior Journeyman)
•Members: Lyra Venn (Journeyman), Thomas Reed (Journeyman), Astraeus Ren (Apprentice), Kira Ashwood (Apprentice)
His team. His friends. They were being sent into the fire together.
He found them near the equipment requisition area, Darius already in command, his voice calm and steady as he issued orders. "Alright, listen up. This is not the Blackwood. We don't have Master-level backup. We're on our own. The waystation is on a major trade route, which means potential civilian casualties. Protecting them is our first priority. Everything else is secondary."
"What do we know about the rift?" Thomas asked, his hand already resting on the hilt of his sword.
"Not much," Darius admitted. "Merchants reported seeing 'shadow creatures' three days ago. Guild scouts confirmed a stable rift but didn't get close enough to assess the threat level. We're going in blind."
"Then we prepare for the worst," Lyra said, her voice tight with determination.
They spent the next hour in a flurry of controlled chaos, gathering supplies, checking their gear, their movements efficient and purposeful. Astraeus requisitioned a proper weapon, a short sword with essence-conductive properties that felt like a natural extension of his arm.
[ITEM ACQUIRED: ESSENCE-CONDUCTIVE SHORT SWORD]
Within the hour, they were standing at the northern gate, ready to depart. The sun was high in the sky, the day bright and clear, a stark contrast to the darkness they were heading toward.
As they walked, a heavy silence settled over the group. The weight of their mission, the knowledge that two other teams were heading out to face similar threats, pressed down on them. The war was no longer a distant, abstract concept. It was here. It was now.
Something is wrong, Kha'Zul said suddenly, his mental voice sharp with alarm. Three stable rifts, appearing simultaneously… this is not random. This is coordinated.
"You think something is organizing them?" Astraeus asked, his hand tightening on the hilt of his new sword.
I think the Architect of Ruin is making his move. Be prepared for anything, boy. This is not a simple Voidborn incursion.
They reached the waystation as the sun began to set, casting long, ominous shadows across the road. The place was eerily silent. The gates were closed, no smoke rose from the chimneys, no sounds of life came from within.
"Something's wrong," Darius said, his voice a low growl.
They approached with caution, their senses on high alert. Lyra placed a hand on the stone wall, her brow furrowed in concentration. "There are people inside," she whispered, her voice tight with confusion. "Maybe twenty. But they're not moving. They're just… standing there. In the main hall. All of them."
"Like statues?" Thomas asked.
"Yes. But they're alive. I can feel their life essence. It's… faint, but it's there."
"We need to get inside," Darius said, his decision firm. "Thomas, the gate."
Thomas unleashed a blast of force, and the gate splintered, swinging open with a groan. They entered the courtyard, their weapons drawn, moving as a single, cohesive unit.
The main hall door was ajar. Darius pushed it open, and they stepped inside.
The scene that greeted them was something out of a nightmare. Twenty people, a mixture of merchants, travelers, and waystation staff, stood in a perfect circle in the center of the hall. Their eyes were open but vacant, their faces devoid of all expression. They were puppets, their strings held by an unseen master.
In the center of the circle, a rift hung in the air. But it wasn't the familiar, angry black of a Void rift. It was a shimmering, silver-white tear in reality, pulsing with a soft, rhythmic light, like a beating heart.
And standing before it was a figure that radiated an aura of immense, terrifying power.
It was humanoid, tall and slender, its form seeming to shift and blur at the edges, as if it was not entirely in this reality. It wore robes of pure, white light, and its face was a mask of inhuman beauty, its eyes holding the cold, ancient light of distant stars.
That's not a Voidborn, Kha'Zul's voice was a shocked whisper in Astraeus's mind. That's… an Ethereal.
"An Ethereal Lord?" Astraeus breathed, his blood turning to ice in his veins.
No. Not a Lord. But something from the same realm. Something far beyond your ability to fight.
The creature turned its head, its gaze sweeping over them, and a voice that was not a voice, a sound that was both beautiful and terrible, echoed in their minds.
Ah. More mortals. How delightful. I was wondering when the local insects would notice my work.
"Darius raised his sword, his knuckles white. "What have you done to these people?"
The Ethereal laughed, a sound like shattering glass. "Done? I have elevated them. I have given them a glimpse of true reality. They are experiencing transcendence. You should be grateful."
"Release them," Darius demanded, his voice tight with rage.
"Release them?" The Ethereal tilted its head, a gesture of amused curiosity. "But they don't want to be released. And even if they did, I can't let you leave. You've seen too much. You might interfere with my other projects."
It raised a slender, elegant hand, and the world twisted.
The stone floor beneath their feet rippled like water. The walls of the waystation dissolved into a swirling vortex of color and light. The ceiling vanished, replaced by a sky filled with alien constellations and impossible geometries. They were no longer in the waystation. They were somewhere else, a pocket dimension of the Ethereal's own creation.
"Welcome to my canvas," the Ethereal's voice echoed around them, seeming to come from everywhere at once. "I do so enjoy having an audience for my art."