The sky above the temple had no stars.
They had all fled.
Far below, beneath earth long since forgotten by maps or man, twelve figures stood in a circle carved from blackened bone. A brazier flickered at their center—its flame purple, steady, unnatural. Around it, runes pulsed with a rhythm older than time.
One of them knelt.
"The seal weakens."
Another, voice gravel-sharp, responded: "It was meant to. It calls to us. The Star writhes."
"We must move," said the tallest. Their voice echoed twice—once in the room, once somewhere beyond.
"Elaris slumbers. But not for long."
A fourth stepped forward. "The kingdom stands strong. The capital still breathes light. The spirits still answer."
A scoff.
"All of it—illusion. Their gods are dead. Their heroes, dust. And the Watchers have long since turned blind."
The tall one raised a hand. Silence followed.
Then, slow and deliberate:
"We tear down their throne. Break open their vaults. And when the pillars fall…"
"We unchain the Star Seal."
The fire flared as something screamed from deep below. A sound not meant for mortal ears. Runes shattered.
"And then…"
"The beginning of the end commences."