The Abyssal Sea stretched wider than any map dared draw—an expanse of black water where stars drowned and time twisted. At its deepest point, beneath a tomb of stone and bone, something ancient stirred.
The goddess awoke.
Not with fire. Not with light. But with a breath—a whisper that made the ocean tremble and the dead remember.
She opened her eyes, two vast orbs of void and flame, and spoke the name:
"Ariastra."
Far away, in a fortress carved from dragonbone, Liora collapsed.
The name hit her like a blade made of memory. Blood rushed to her ears. She screamed, her voice cracking the bones of her own throne. Her soldiers—those few that still retained a sliver of sentience—fell to their knees.
Liora trembled as visions flooded her mind.
A temple. A blade. A voice that had once begged her to remember.Her mother's face, blurred by magic. Her real name, buried beneath layers of spells and falsehoods.
Ariastra.
That was her name before the gods took it from her. Before they made her into Liora.
She clawed at her skull, as if she could dig through the confusion and pull out the truth. But it remained just out of reach—like a dream half-forgotten on waking.
And then the voice came.
Not from memory. Not from imagination.
It echoed through her mind, ancient and vast, like a tide crashing against the walls of her sanity.
"Child of flame and bone… I am awake. And I remember you."
Hours passed.
Or maybe days.
When Liora finally opened her eyes, she found herself lying on the cracked marble floor of her throne room. Her once-pristine robes were soaked with sweat and ash. The skulls embedded in the walls whispered nonsense—scraps of prophecy and screams from beyond the veil.
But her mind was quiet.
And in that silence, purpose returned.
She stood.
Her generals—what remained of them—gathered at her call.
There was Veyron, the half-dragon wight who had sworn himself to her after she burned his homeland. There was Silra the Pale, a lich queen older than some kingdoms. And at the back, nearly hidden in the shadows, stood Kelvir—a soulbound assassin who had once tried to kill her, now bound to her will.
They looked upon her as one might look at a storm.
"I have remembered something," she said.
The room held its breath.
"My name… was stolen."
They didn't speak. They didn't need to. Every one of them felt the tremor in her voice.
"I am not merely Liora the Bone Queen. I am Ariastra of the First Flame, heir to the Hollow Star. And we are no longer bound by the rules of this world."
Silra raised her skeletal hand. "The gods will not allow this."
"They will try," Liora said. "And they will bleed."
Elsewhere, in a storm-battered citadel high atop the Wyrmspire Peaks, kings and warlords met in secret.
The surviving dwarves, remnants of three fallen kingdoms, huddled beside dragonlords and knights in silver. None trusted each other—but all agreed on one thing:
Liora had become too powerful.
They spoke her name only in whispers now. Rumors swirled—of her raising mountains to march, of her binding the Abyssal tides to her will. Of entire bloodlines vanishing overnight, their souls devoured.
One man stood above them all, watching with quiet fury.
General Aldren of the Eclipsed Flame.
He had once been Kael's mentor. Now he was commander of the last living coalition not bent to Liora's will.
"She's becoming something else," he muttered, staring into the fire. "Not just a necromancer. Not just a conqueror. A... force."
A dwarven prince scoffed. "She bleeds like the rest of us. She can be killed."
Aldren didn't reply. He looked to the sky.
Clouds twisted in unnatural spirals. Lightning cracked with black light.
He shivered.
"She's not trying to conquer the world anymore," he said. "She's trying to remake it."
Back in the fortress of bone, Liora stood before a mirror—one she hadn't dared look into since Kael's death.
The woman who stared back was no longer the bright-eyed rogue mage who once feared her own power.
Her hair had turned white as snow, threaded with ember-like strands. Her skin was pale and etched with sigils that pulsed with necrotic energy. Her eyes… her eyes were burning. Not with hate, but with a hunger for the truth. For justice. For something beyond.
She reached out to touch her reflection—and the mirror shattered.
Inside its frame was not glass, but a veil. A shimmer of gold, thin as breath.
It pulsed once. Then—
A vision.
A mountain engulfed in black fire. A chained god screaming her name. A weapon forged from the bones of forgotten stars.
Her path was no longer conquest.
It was ascension.
That night, Liora gathered her army.
The bone dragons took flight, casting shadows across the moon. From the shattered cities and graves of the fallen, new undead rose—faster, smarter, fused with souls willingly given to her cause.
She stood atop her war-beast, a colossus stitched from dragon hearts and divine metal, and raised her staff.
"Tonight," she shouted, her voice echoing across realms, "we march not for land. Not for thrones. But for truth."
"And if the gods try to stop us—"
She smiled.
"—then let them come."