The sky over the Weeping Meridian bled violet—an omen not seen since the first Sovereign Wars. Above the trembling earth, the clouds twisted into silent sigils, forgotten by even the oldest gods. The realm itself seemed to draw breath as if bracing for what was to come.
At the heart of the Meridian stood a ruined palace—its spires snapped, its banners reduced to ash. This had once been a sanctuary of the Pantheon of Flame, a council of fireborn demigods who ruled this region with divine arrogance. Once.
Now, the thrones they once occupied whispered.
Within the broken hall, seven thrones stood in a circle, cracked but not empty. Each throne bore the lingering spirit of a ruler long slain by a hand too terrible to name. Their echoes had faded into myth, their destruction considered a curse rather than conquest. They had not fallen to an army. They had fallen to one.
To Zeirion Althar.
And now, he returned.
His cloak billowed as he entered the chamber, his boots crunching against blackened glass where once a sacred floor had been. Beside him, Aralya walked without sound, her expression unreadable, yet her aura warred with the cursed air around them.
"They remember you," she said softly.
"They should forget," Zeirion replied, stopping before the central throne—a great obsidian seat cracked in half, veins of gold still glowing from ancient fire. "It would hurt less."
The whispers grew louder.
From the shadows crawled a figure cloaked in embers. He knelt—not out of reverence, but necessity. His body had once been host to a Flameborne soul, now hollowed by centuries of regret.
"You've come to finish it?" he rasped.
"No," Zeirion said, his voice echoing across time. "I've come to listen."
The whispers coalesced.
And the thrones spoke.
"Sovereign of the Rift. Unmaker of Laws. Why do you walk again beneath the heavens you sundered?"
Zeirion did not flinch. He raised a hand—not to threaten, but to open. Between his fingers glowed a fractal shard of time: a memory made solid.
"I walk not for conquest," he said. "I walk for peace."
Silence followed. Then, laughter—cracked, eternal, the sound of dying stars mocking a dream.
"Peace? With her?" the throne of the Third Flame hissed. "The one you once nearly broke the world to save?"
Zeirion's eyes gleamed.
"Yes," he said simply.
The thrones trembled.
Aralya stepped forward, her presence a cleansing wind. The spirits recoiled.
"You mock peace because you never tasted it," she said. "He offered you mercy once. You spat on it. Now, this is your second death."
And with that, the thrones fell silent.
Zeirion turned away. "We're wasting time. The world won't wait for us to convince ghosts."
As they left, the throne hall cracked further.
And far below, beneath the foundation of the palace, something stirred—a deeper secret, a weapon forged during the First Silence. One of the Thrones had hidden it
there, fearing even Zeirion's reach.
But he had felt it.
In the stillness behind his eyes.
"It wakes," Aralya said quietly.
Zeirion nodded. "We may need it. But not yet."
And as they vanished beyond the Meridian's edge, the thrones whispered once more—not in scorn, but in fear.
For the Sovereign who returned no longer sought war.
And that made him even more dangerous than before.