Dawn found Solan Maelvaran wading through the shallow surf of the Sea of Sealed Light. He kept his cloak lifted at the hem, revealing runes carved into his legs that pulsed with quiet dread. Ahead, jagged spires of basalt rose from the water like broken teeth. Beyond them lay the Bleeding Coast, where the Veil had torn so badly that echoes of other realms seeped into this one.
Kaelir Thorne strode beside him, chest heaving, ash‑white hair plastered to his scalp. His Hollow Flame scars glowed faintly, flickering with each crashing wave. Neither spoke—the sea swallowed even their footsteps.
A flicker in the water caught Solan's eye: a shifting face, pale and angling downward, eyes like drowned lanterns. He stilled, hand drifting toward the Forsaken Grimoire at his belt. The surface calmed as he watched.
"You see it too," Kaelir murmured.
Solan nodded, voice caught in his throat. "An echo. Not quite a wraith. More… memory made flesh."
They moved on, following the ruined quay toward a sunken archway carved with five eroded sigils—marks of the Forbidden Towers. The central glyph, long obscured by tide and rust, now glowed a dark azure.
"The Tower of Stone," Kaelir said, tracing its outline. "Supposed to be the heart of Gloam Court's power before the Divine War."
Solan pressed his palm to the glyph. Veilcraft surged—sharp and cold. He recoiled, gasping.
Beneath the waters, the glyph peeled back like a curtain, revealing a spiral staircase descending into blackness.
"It's open," he said, voice low.
Kaelir looked uncertain. "We were warned. Anything beneath this level…" He swallowed. "Don't ask me to finish that sentence."
But Solan stepped forward. "We came for relics and rifts. This is both."
Their boots hit stone as they descended. The stairwell curved, lit by phosphorescent algae in the walls. Every step echoed in a chorus of whispers—fragments of ancient prayers, the distant screams of avatars long dead.
At the bottom, they emerged into a vast chamber. Pillars of rough stone stretched upward into darkness. Pools of ink‑black water glimmered around a raised dais. On it lay a shattered reliquary: a crystalline cage once containing a Crown‑tier Soulchain.
Solan approached, wary. The shards were jagged, humming with residual magic. He reached out and a fragment floated toward his palm, as though summoned.
"It's a fragment of the Reliquary of Silence," he breathed. "It was Warden‑bound. Now… it's free."
Kaelir winced. "You want to bind it to yourself?"
"No," Solan said, voice steady. "We need to stabilize the rift. I'll tether it to Wyrm's chain, use it as an anchor."
Kaelir's jaw clenched. "You willing to risk that?"
Solan met his gaze. "Worse than dying in the Labyrinth."
They set to work. Solan scratched a binding rune into his forearm. Blood welled, soaking the reliquary shard. Wyrm's shadow coiled around him, luminous threads weaving into the fragment. A pulse exploded, and the chamber trembled.
Above them, water roared. A fissure cracked through the ceiling, sending waves of spectral energy surging into the pools. The surface of each braid of water went still—including the pools around them.
The reliquary fragment glowed, tethered to Wyrm's chain now. But the tremor had not ended.
A low roar—something immense—rolled through the chamber. In its wake, a figure stepped from the ceiling fissure: a Warden construct half‑melted by endless tides, its skull‑crown dripping saline steel. The Abnegate Sovereign from Tier IV, drawn by the leaked essence.
Kaelir drew his obsidian shard, flames licking along its edge. "I thought we left you behind."
The Sovereign's ritual chains rattled. "You unbind me, child of silence. Now you weave pain."
Solan drew the Mask of the Forsaken Tongue into view. The Warden's horns cracked. "You feed on regret. We bind you here."
He thrust the Mask forward, voice ringing in an ancient dialect: "Sirael Varn Eshkal—Revoke!" The reliquary fragment blazed. Wyrm roared.
The Sovereign staggered, chains unraveling. But before it collapsed, it raised a hand and hurled a tide of saltwater infused with tortured echoes. The wave knocked Kaelir off his feet.
Solan planted his foot, cleaving the wave with a circle of runes. The spray sizzled, hissing like a wounded beast. The Sovereign sagged, then dissolved into motes of black ichor.
Silence fell—absolute and thunderous.
Kaelir staggered to his knees. "By fire… by shadow… by everything I fear."
Solan collapsed beside him. The reliquary fragment dimmed in his palm. "It's bound," he gasped. "For now."
They rose, battered but alive. Ahead, the dais glowed with the seal's renewed power.
Kaelir produced a small reliquary vial from his belt. "And this?" he asked, handing it to Solan. Inside: a drop of water from the pool, swirling with silver light.
"A calibration sample," Solan said, voice hoarse. "We'll need it to close the other rifts."
They departed the chamber, stepping into the staircase as the reliquary seal whispered its approval.
Above, Ashura Vael and the lantern envoy awaited. Their relays had pinpointed the rift's location and the signature of the Abnegate's summoning.
She regarded them both with weary relief. "You survived," she said, voice flat.
Solan handed her the vial. "Sample from the Reliquary Pool. It'll help recalibrate the wards."
The envoy's eyes gleamed. "With this, we can rewrite the coast's Warding Sigil."
Ashura folded her arms. "Or break it entirely. Be cautious. The Pale Choir is moving faster than we thought."
Kaelir's scarlet eyes met hers. "Then we'll move faster."
That night, Solan stood at the top of the Bleeding Coast bluff, watching the tides retreat. The reliquary fragment burned a pale blue in his palm. The sample glowed in the other.
He closed his eyes.
A vision: the Fifth Tower's shattered domes rising from white sand. A chorus of mask‑spirits ascending into storms. And at their center—the Nameless Core, grinning.
He opened his eyes to find Wyrm coiled at his feet, silent.
They would need more than fire and shadow to face what followed. But for now, they had bought time.
The Coast lay calm. The rifts had closed… for a moment.
But the Veil would bleed again.
And Solan Maelvaran would be waiting.