The Obsidian Spire lay silent beneath the first golden light of Dystyx's new dawn. Rubble and cracked rune-stones glimmered where Velkyrion's cult once held sway, and the storm-wracked altar at its heart now bore only the clean silver of the Crown of Storms.
Syrith Kaen Drexil stood on the shattered balcony where the final battle had ended, his cloak drifting in a gentle breeze free of shadow. Averith and Roukhal joined him, their armor scorched but their spirits unbroken. Below, the city's people poured into the streets, blinking against the sunrise as word spread: the Mask of Seven Bloods had fallen, and the King Reborn ruled once more.
A lofty hush fell over the crowd as Syrith descended the Spire's fractured steps, the Crown's facets catching every ray of light. Children ran ahead, scattering petals before his feet. Freed Wardens lowered their standards in salute. Rogue healers and reborn smiths stood in wreaths of violet flame and gleaming steel. Everywhere, survivors emerged from hiding to witness the dawn of a new era.
At the plaza's center, Syrith paused before the broken statue of Dystyx's founder. He lifted his voice so that every ear could hear:
"People of Dystyx—and citizens of all realms—I stand before you not as a god, but as one who was once lost to death, now returned by your faith and by the power of every vow reclaimed. Today, we lay down the chains of betrayal and raise up the bonds of honor."
He held aloft the Crown of Storms, its storm-fire dancing across his arm. "Let this Crown symbolize not my power alone, but the unity of storm, flame, earth, wind, water, and shadow—that together can reshape worlds."
From the crowd, Threvana Morae stepped forward, her spiral-marked hand resting on her heart. "And let every broken promise be reborn in service to the people," she intoned, voice warm with hope. "Let every regret be forged into resolve."
A roar of agreement rolled through the plaza. Syrith lowered his Crown in a solemn bow, then placed it upon the statue's broken head—restoring its gaze to the sky. In that moment, the carved eyes filled with living lightning, the statue's wings repaired themselves in veins of silvery storm, and the memorial to Dystyx's founder stood whole once more, crowned by the King's own vow.
Averith approached the newly restored monument, violet fire swirling at her fingertips. She laid a single blossom at its base—moonpetals kissed by her healing flame. "May this city and its people always find light in the darkest hour," she whispered.
Roukhal, ever the sentinel, surveyed the crowd. "And may any who betray these vows know that we stand ready," he said, spear angled toward the horizon. "For as long as the Crown endures, so too will our watch."
As the sun climbed, Syrith ascended the statue's steps to address the gathered realms via the arcane storm-broadcasts that once spread his word across galaxies. His words, carried on lightning-woven channels, bore witness to every kingdom:
"The Mask of Seven Bloods is no more. The Crown of Storms reigns—and with it, we herald an age of justice, unity, and renewal. To every betrayed soul: your hope is reborn. To every realm on the brink of shadow: stand with us, and we shall weather any storm together."
Across the 99,999 Realms, lightning-borne messages flashed in palace halls and humble cottages alike. Alliances long thought lost rekindled under Syrith's banner. Tributes arrived from distant courts. And in the heart of Aether'Khal—his ancient floating kingdom—storm-drakes took wing once more, answering the call of their Sovereign.
As dusk fell on that first perfect day, Syrith, Averith, Roukhal, and their allies gathered atop the Storm Spire. They raised cups—silver, crystal, and clay—filled with water from the Mist Temple, flame-oil from the Ember District, and ground iron from the Stone District. In unison they toasted:
"To broken vows reborn, to the unity of realms, and to the storm that guides us."
They drank, and at that single sip, the Crown's facets gleamed with every reclaimed Echo, sealing their promise in light. Below, Dystyx's lanterns burned bright through the night—no longer markers of fear, but beacons of hope.
Thus began the reign of the Crownless God—Syrith Kaen Drexil—King by storm and by vow, whose justice would echo across the stars far longer than any mask of blood.