Cloaks damp from earlier squalls, we follow a stone path veined with faint luminance. Moss glows along cracks, forming soft ribbons of guide-light, an ancient courtesy from the druids who shaped this citadel centuries before any of us drew breath. Each step into that glow pulses against the lattice on my ribs, a muted echo, as though the forest measures my heartbeat and finds it wanting.
High above, rope bridges sing with the weight of hurrying scouts—druids in leaf-mail, wolf sentries, wing-kin messengers flitting between towers shaped from living trees coaxed into spirals. The architecture humbles me: not a single nail gouges bark; walls breathe with the hush of wind through needles. Yettonight that hush feels tremulous, as though the forest itself waits for a verdict it fears.
Kylan’s stride bears the fire-forged steadiness I watched harden during the ghost-wolf clash, but his eyes flick restlessly between ramparts. The carved flute rests over his heart, reminder of grief finally gentled. Even with that victory, his shoulders carry the scent of preparation for larger storms.
“Gatehouse ahead,” a guide announces without turning. She is a thin shadow in dusk, hair woven with silver fir needles. Her voice vibrates with the same timbre as the horns, as though the citadel has trained its people to speak in chords.
Stone gives way to polished rootwork entwined into archways. Bioluminescent vines crawl the wood, shedding soft teal. Nine torches burn at equal intervals, their flames tinted green by fox-glove oil. The air thickens with magic—an ozone prickle that snags lungs. My lattice warms until I feel the outlines of every branching line beneath skin.
Boundary Pool lies at the foot of the central platform: a basin once carved to mirror the sky even in darkness, used by Arbiters to test truth. Tonight a fissure gapes across its surface. Water sheets down unseen fracture, leaving jagged dry crevasse from rim to rim. From that wound, magic rises in wisps of smoke-white threads, twisting upward like souls peeled from flesh.
I stop on threshold. Every oracle sense inside me recoils, not in fear, but recognition. This is what a realm’s connective tissue looks like when it tears.
Wind sighs through clearing, and the smoke leans toward me, as though tasting. Kylan’s hand lands on my lower back, grounding.
“The pool maintained itself since Entanglement War,” he murmurs. “What could score it?”
“The same pressure cracking my bones,” I answer. “Convergence loading the weave with more weight than anchors can hold.”
A pair of keepers hurry with runic planks, attempting to gasket the fracture. Sparks spit off wood whenever it nears the smoke; they recoil, muttering.
I crouch, ignoring lattice ache, and extend a single finger toward vapor—close enough to feel chill. Symbols bloom in steam: an eye, a spiral, a broken hourglass. None bode well. I withdraw before it brands me.
“Your apprentice?” Kylan asks softly, reading my face.
“I feared her library would break like this.” My voice husks. “The damage is traveling, leaping between ancient nodes.”
He pats my shoulder twice—brief but strong. “Council must act before leap finds den root.”
A horn blasts again, closer: summons to inner ring. We straighten. Guide gestures us onward across bridge arcing above dark water that once formed part of pool overflow. The current swirls slower than memory; emerald fish glow weakly as though lamps losing oil.
The Citadel’s heart is a wide concourse of interlaced roots polished to ivory. Eight thrones carved from living trunk line the circle, their branches spreading overhead into a lattice of leaves acting as natural vault. Between thrones stand banners of each faction: Terrastria’s earthen brown spiral, Umbramere’s black-silver vortex, Pyreborn’s ember phoenix, and so on. Tonight an extra banner flaps—a new sigil bearing crimson sickle over eclipse: Crimson Dawn’s claimed seat, though none invited them. The cloth seethes with subtle shimmer, as though ink still wet.
I catch Kylan’s growl. “Desecration,” he whispers.
“Or warning,” I answer.
Seat of Arbiters occupies center: a low dais of petrified yew. On it stand four robed figures, hoods shadowing faces. Each glows faintly with personal aura—blue, green, amber, violet. One aura flickers red at edges, as though corrupted ember licks outward. My stomach knots; prophecy’s scent here is rancid as spoiled wine.
Before we reach dais, movement to right draws gaze. Isabelle Hao slips from behind Terrastria banner. Tall, hair a cascade of midnight waves woven with gold chains, she moves with dancer’s precision. Her earth-tuned magic manifests as the faint scent of rain on dust. Our gazes lock. Her eyes widen fraction before she inclines head.
We share no words. We have never needed them. Last Convergence, when sky nearly split, she held my shoulders while thunder visions ravaged me. I saved her from pearl maggot infestation in return. Those binds hold.
I tilt head toward Kylan, signal safety of this ally. He nods curtly; introductions can wait.
A tremor shivers platform; hush falls. The Arbiter with red-tinged aura spreads arms, hood sliding just enough to reveal jaw streaked by vein crawling black into cheek. The madness I sensed coils thick inside his power—chaos threading through rune network.
He addresses assembly. “Convergence swells. The Boundary Pool bleeds fractures. We propose measured release: a Second Sundering, smaller cut dividing realm again to relieve strain.”
Murmurs surge. I glance at fissure smoke curling behind; measured release may as well be spear through heart.
Another Arbiter—blue aura cool and steady—speaks. “We have not concluded all options. Oracles and alpha councils still gather.”
Red voice snaps back. “Time is blood. Wolves cough sand, forests desiccate, seas roil. You stall to spare feelings.”
Kylan stiffens but holds tongue. Isabelle’s fingers curl at her side, knuckles blanching.
I step forward without waiting for permission. “And forced Sundering spares nothing. It rips living cities into freefall. History echoes with screams from first cut.”
