The Glass Tree Hall shimmered like a cathedral carved from living crystal, its dome-like canopy filtering divine sunlight into radiant streaks that bathed the war table in sacred glow. Leaves of light rustled above, whispering the breath of the Holy Tree through the air. This place—ancient heart of Sylvaranthe—was now the council chamber of gods and warriors.
Jareth stood at the head of the carved stone table, arms crossed, the Godsword resting beside him like a silent star.
Before him gathered the mightiest champions of the living realms:
Lyra, seated on the left, now healed and regally calm, her sharp eyes scanning maps and glyph-runes of terrain.
Nerina, to the right, her strength restored, her voice once again the command of fire and steel.
Captain Eryndor of the Skybound Realm, his long windcloak trailing like mist behind him, the sigil of cloud and falcon gleaming on his chest.
Captain Rurik of Elaria, stoic and grounded, his thick gauntlets clasped before him, representing the Earthguard forces with unwavering loyalty.
King Altheryon Leaf-Crown, his eyes glowing with the wisdom of forests older than memory.
And Commander Vaelis Nightthorn, silent shadow of Sylvaranthe's defense, his silver mask hiding a thousand battlefield stories.
The weight of the world sat in the silence that followed the last greeting.
Jareth stepped forward.
"The war ahead will not spare anyone," he said, voice resolute. "We have cities to protect. Lands to cleanse. Souls to save. But above all—we carry the light of the Godsword. And that light... must move forward."
He tapped the east side of the carved map. Three cities gleamed as sigils etched in enchanted silver:
Sylvaranthe — the central heart.
Skybound Realm — far east, through the Void Gate.
Elaria — southeast, seated between rivers of light.
"From now on, Sylvaranthe will serve as our capital," Jareth declared. "Its Holy Tree feeds the mana of all regions. Its people are the most numerous, its defenses the strongest. The Void Gate east of here leads to Skybound, and beyond that, Elaria."
Nods followed. Strategists leaned closer.
"Nerina," he turned to her, "you are hereby appointed High General of Sylvaranthe. You've earned the city's fire. Defend it, nurture its armies, and guard the Tree."
She smirked and saluted with her palm to her heart. "With honor, my Lord."
"Lyra," he said, facing her next, "you will take command of Elaria's defense. Your spirit has always belonged to that city. As General, you will rebuild it—and prepare its gate to the south."
Lyra bowed low, speaking with serene strength. "It shall rise stronger than before."
Then, as if summoned by fate, the Godsword trembled.
All eyes turned.
The blade rose slowly, its core flaring bright with divine heat.
But instead of pointing in one direction, it split its aura, casting dual beams—north and south.
Jareth's eyes narrowed. "What is this...?"
From within his soul, the deep voice of Bahamut, ancient dragon-god, echoed.
"Two lights. Two burdens. It may mean one of two things..."
"One—you are free to choose which path to walk next."
"Or two… fate demands a divided strike. Two wars. Two fronts. Simultaneously."
The council broke into murmurs.
Jareth stared into the radiant paths, thoughts racing.
If he chose one direction, they could defend their cities more tightly—but lose ground and allow the enemy to prepare their retaliation.
If they chose to attack both directions—they risked splitting forces... but could seize momentum, convert more believers, expand the teleportation radius, and deliver a psychological blow to the darkness.
He raised his hand.
"We vote."
One by one, the leaders raised their hands. Unanimous.
Nerina spoke first. "The best defense is to attack."
Lyra followed. "Strike while the light is with us."
Jareth nodded, resolve hardening. Then he did something unexpected.
He drew the Godsword and pointed it north, where the light shone strongest.
"I will lead the charge north. Alone if I must."
The light from the blade flared, reacting to his declaration. A ripple of power swept the chamber.
The northern lands had grown darker, thicker with demon energy. But something beyond awaited—perhaps a dark kingdom, or a sealed ruin. He had felt it before in dreams.
"Bahamut," he whispered inwardly, "what waits for us there?"
"Not just enemies. But maybe .... a shadow of my past."
As the room adjusted to his bold choice, Jareth turned toward the map again.
The South Front.
He looked at Lyra and Nerina, both standing tall.
After a moment of contemplation, he spoke.
"Captain Eryndor," he said, locking eyes with the Skybound commander. "You'll go with Lyra. She will lead the attack south—with the Skybound Realm's elite wings at her side."
He then turned to Nerina.
"You remain in Sylvaranthe. Guard the tree. Should we fall elsewhere, this city must stand."
Nerina didn't protest. She saluted again, this time more fiercely. "The Tree won't fall. Not while I draw breath."
Rurik and Vaelis gave solemn nods, ready to lend their troops to both generals.
As the council broke apart, ready to prepare their battalions, Jareth remained alone for a moment longer.
He gazed toward the twin lights of the sword—north and south. War drums echoed in his heart.
This was only the beginning.
And as he walked toward the edge of the balcony and looked upon the wild horizon of EDEN, he whispered:
"Let the gods witness our charge."