The Spiral had gone quiet.
No tremor, no wind. Just silence—a stillness so deep it seemed to echo across dimensions.
Haraza knelt at the center of the chamber, hand still outstretched, the ghost of the flame lingering on his palm. The Glyph was no longer visible, but its presence coursed through his very blood, reshaping his perception of the world around him. He could feel the pulse of creation—the primordial rhythm beneath all things.
The Origin Glyph was awake.
And the world, sensing its return, began to stir.
Far to the North – The Pale Crown
A mirror of obsidian cracked.
The High Oracle of the Pale Crown—her eyes shrouded by frostwoven silk—staggered as the vision tore through her.
She saw a man crowned in light and shadow.
A helm forged of truth and ruin.
A name spoken in the tongue of the first world.
("Haraza Genso,") she whispered.
Her attendants fell to their knees around her, struck dumb by the magnitude of what they'd just felt. Her voice cut through the veil.
("Sound the Mourning Bell.")
One of the acolytes gasped. ("But that bell hasn't tolled since—")
("Since the Age of Ending,") the Oracle finished.
("And now, the Ending has returned.")
The bell rang out moments later—a deep, reverberating chime that echoed across icefields and haunted forests, reaching the ears of warlords and old gods alike.
In the Scorched West – The Ember League
A volcano erupted without warning.
Ash blotted out the sky.
Atop a tower made from petrified dragonbone, a warrior-priest with a crimson brand carved into his chest smiled grimly.
("So... he has chosen,") the priest muttered.
He knelt before a massive rune-etched relic—an anvil infused with centuries of war-forged prophecy—and touched his forehead to the metal.
"Then the League must act. Prepare the Ashborn. The world's balance has tipped."
A hundred forge-masters began to chant.
From deep below, weapons began to sing.
South of the Forbidden Shroud – The Sapphire Accord
A scholar dropped her ink-stone.
Shards scattered across her map.
All twelve threads of the Ley Grid pulsed once, like a heart seizing in realization.
("What could—?")
Then she knew.
The Glyph.
The first Glyph.
And someone had bonded with it.
A letter was dispatched within the hour—sealed with a rare tri-marked sigil and carried by a sky-born wyrm.
It was addressed to a name she never thought she'd have to write again:
("To the Reclaimer of the Rift.")
Back in the Spiral – Present
The chamber had begun to dim.
Not with darkness—but with return. The vision was ending. Reality was asserting itself once more.
Lirien approached Haraza slowly, a look of both awe and concern in her eyes.
("You look… different,") she whispered.
Haraza stood. His armor was unchanged, but something deeper radiated from him now—an inner fire, invisible but undeniable. The air around him hummed, as if the world itself leaned closer to hear what he might say next.
("I don't feel different,") he said, voice quiet. ("But everything else does.")
The Origin Glyph didn't give him strength in the traditional sense. It wasn't power to wield like a sword or spell.
It was understanding.
A connection to the foundational truths of this realm. He could now see the unseen patterns in people's speech, in the flow of wind over stone, in the songs of birds that weren't really birds at all—but watchers of an ancient order. He could sense when something was wrong in the weave of fate.
He could feel a storm coming.
Lirien touched his arm gently. ("Then we need to prepare.")
Haraza nodded slowly.
But then, the Spiral spoke one last time.
A final glyph flickered into being—one neither of them had seen before. It wasn't carved into stone or etched in flame. It floated in the air, ephemeral and silent.
And it moved.
It slid into Haraza's chest—and vanished.
He gasped and stumbled, but did not fall. His eyes went wide.
("What was that?") Lirien asked sharply, drawing closer.
Haraza's eyes turned toward her slowly, distant—his breath shallow.
("I don't know,") he whispered. ("But it wasn't from this world.")
Hours Later – The World Above
They emerged from the Spiral into an eerily still landscape. The wind had ceased. No birdsong. No rustling of trees. As if the land itself was holding its breath.
The spiral door sealed behind them.
Lirien glanced up. ("That glyph… the last one. Do you still feel it?")
Haraza touched his chest, nodding. ("It's… asleep. But it's not like the others. It's not part of the Accord.")
("What, then?")
("I think it's something else entirely. Something older.")
Before she could reply, the sky changed.
A fissure opened high above—thin, white, and long like a knife slash across reality. It didn't shimmer. It didn't thunder.
It just was.
Haraza stared.
The Rift.
It was waking again.
And this time… it wasn't waiting for an invitation.
Elsewhere – Beyond the Rift
Far beyond the sky, where light bent and time wandered, a presence stirred.
Bound in silver thorns. Eyes like galaxies. Hands that could sculpt continents with a flick.
It had watched Haraza's journey with growing interest.
Its name was not meant for mortal tongues.
But it had been called many things.
Seeker. Weaver. The Hand Behind the Rift.
Now, for the first time in an age, it stirred from its place.
("He has touched the Origin,") it said to the void.
("The Spiral has named him.")
A smile—not of kindness, but of inevitability—crossed its many faces.
("Then the game begins.")