The bell tolled only once.
But that was enough to fracture a realm.
High above the mortal plane, where time coiled and gods dreamt in starlight, the Aether Sanctum erupted in chaos.
Wings of flame beat against crystal spires. Rivers of light reversed their flow. The sky cracked like ancient glass as divinity stirred from its slumber.
A voice, deeper than oceans and colder than death, reverberated through the sanctuary.
"She remembers."
Seven thrones stood beneath a ceiling of swirling constellations. Only four were now occupied—two cloaked in golden fire, one in verdant bloom, and the last enshrouded in silver mist.
The seat of Death, once belonging to Kael, remained cold and broken.
The goddess of Judgment, Ilyra, sat forward, her face hidden behind a veil of marble. "It is not possible. The name was erased. The memory sealed."
The god of War, Balthoros, laughed once—a sound like a battlefield's final breath.
"She's rewriting herself. And now she marches toward us."
The one wreathed in mist, the Dreamer, said nothing.
He simply reached out and pulled a vision from the threads of fate.
They all watched it unfold—
Liora, astride her monstrous war-beast, cutting through armies like wind through wheat. Cities bending the knee not out of fear—but awe. Souls once lost, choosing her willingly. Even the void itself seemed to open its maw for her command.
"She was meant to die," Ilyra whispered. "The prophecy—"
"Was crafted by cowards," Balthoros growled. "You feared what she would become. You made her the villain."
"And now she comes to reclaim the truth," the Dreamer said, finally speaking. His voice was layered—a child's hope, an old man's regret, and a storm's hunger all woven into one.
Back on the mortal plane, Liora stood at the edge of the Silent Divide, where the sky flickered between worlds.
The winds here sang of betrayal.
This was where Kael died—or so she believed. Now, doubt gnawed at the edges of her mind. The goddess's words in the last battle had unearthed too much. A name she didn't know she had. Powers she never meant to wield.
But worse still was the whisper that refused to leave her since awakening in the throne room:
Kael isn't dead. Not truly.
She clenched her fist, and the air around her darkened.
"Report," she said.
Kelvir stepped forward, his form flickering like a flame in the wind. "The united armies of the south have fallen. The elven resistance broke last night. And the shattered dwarven clans are retreating into the Wyrmspire caverns."
Veyron added, "But… there's movement in the clouds. Divine. I feel their eyes."
Liora nodded. "They're watching. Preparing."
"Will they act?"
"Oh, yes. They always do. But never until it's too late."
In the Sanctum, the gods reached a rare and violent consensus.
She must be stopped—not because she was wrong, but because she remembered too much.
"She knows about the Shard of Origin," Balthoros said, pacing. "If she finds it, she can remake the threads of fate itself."
"She is too far gone," Ilyra said coldly. "We must send the Seraphim."
"No," the Dreamer said.
All turned to him.
"She does not need chains. She needs a choice."
"You would reason with her?" Ilyra spat. "After all she's done?"
"I would remind her that she is not yet beyond redemption."
"And if she refuses?" Balthoros rumbled.
The Dreamer didn't answer.
Instead, he took the piece of fate he had torn earlier… and burned it in his hand.
That night, as Liora crossed into the plains of Ashenhal, where time itself once fractured in an ancient war, the stars disappeared.
Not hidden—removed.
The sky turned blank. Empty. Silent.
And from that silence came a figure.
He wore no armor. No crown. No weapon.
He was pale and tall, with hair like silver fire and eyes that shimmered with every dream ever dreamt. Around him, the world softened. Grass bloomed under his feet. The wind wept.
Liora halted her army with a raised hand.
The being stepped forward alone.
The soldiers—all of them, dead or alive—fell to their knees. Even her bone dragons lowered their wings.
Only Liora remained standing.
"I know you," she said.
The figure smiled faintly. "And I… remember you."
"Dreamer."
He nodded once.
"Are you here to fight me?"
"No. I'm here to ask you a question."
She didn't speak, but her hands began to glow—death and fire, poised like coiled serpents.
The Dreamer did not flinch.
"Do you want to destroy this world?" he asked.
"No," Liora said. "I want to rebuild it."
"And if rebuilding means tearing down the gods?"
"Then I'll tear them down."
The Dreamer stepped closer.
"You once loved the world. Even when it hurt you. Do you remember that?"
Liora's lip twitched.
A flash: a child holding a flower. A laugh. A face.
Then a blade. Fire. Screams.
"I remember what you let them do to me," she hissed.
The Dreamer's expression faltered.
"I am not asking you to forgive us. I am asking you… when the time comes, when you stand before the choice—vengeance or rebirth—what will you choose?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she raised her hand.
The world screamed—a sound not heard since the first god died.
The Dreamer vanished before she could strike.
And in his place, a mark burned into the ground: a star-shaped scar, identical to the one on her back.
She stared at it, breathing hard, fists trembling.
Then, she turned to her army.
"Prepare the rites," she commanded. "We march for the Gate of Starlight."