The Void is impartial.
The Darkness does not take sides in judgment.
The Void guides our steps.
You approach the first torch in the Commons, a towering pillar of stone and emerald Polis crystal inset into the district’s very heart. There had been a temple here once. You recall once coming to pray here. To calm the sick. Now it is gone. Sevrion Hale had leveled it to place these pillars for the ceremony. To lash out at you in any way he can.
You place your hand on the circular disk engraved with the Void’s symbol on the stone and watch as fire takes root at the top.
The People cheer. For each torch, they are allowed to use their voices. The Sovereign Horn rings in celebration.
You continue on the path, still lost in the chant. Lost in the falsehood of your sacred title.
The Darkness cradles us.
Strength is our spine.
You light the second and third torches in the rubble of the Han. More cheers. More flower corpses thrown to wither at your feet.
Silence is our freedom.
Order is our mercy.
The Iliri and Varrow cheer as the fourth and fifth torches are lit.
Focus. Only one now remains.
Endure the dizziness. The sickness. The nausea.
Poor little Sokâr. Beneath this ornate dress, you are soaked to the skin. The heat buzzes like flies around our rotting corpse—a scavenger ready to pick at our flesh when it wears us down to our barest threads.
Look there, Auryn’reh.
At last, the final pillar is in sight. Wait. Do not dare to quicken your halting pace. The Attendants behind you barely keep up with shallow breaths. If you make them stumble, their deaths will forever be your fault. Do not stop searching the crowd. Keep the tetherstone close. You were warned. Zeera plans your downfall, and all of this has progressed far too seamlessly.
As you approach the final pillar, you see two figures standing on a balcony at the Prismatum’s fifth story dais. One in shimmering white silk and the other in obsidian aethersteel rune armor.
Your Silari watches you from above. Negligent fool. He should be beside you. He should never leave his Numen unattended. He should not—
:: SILENCE. ::
:: YOU ARE NOT HIS WARDEN. ::
:: HE IS MINE. ::
I tilt my head with a wince.
The other voice retreats.
And slowly. Step by step.
I am myself again, though I hardly recall how I came to stand here. My eyes seek out Lu'ma—my friend, my tether—until I remember that she'd stayed behind at the Lattices to prepare for my return. She'd worried that the heat would trigger my Flares, and as my head pounds and swells, I see she was correct.
I waver on my feet, the heat pressing in—choking me—and clutch the tetherstone so hard in my palm that my hand hurts. The pain helps me focus, and I look up at the Prismatum's balcony where Shu’Khan’s figure stands beside my Resh’Agar.
Reaching out through our Bond, I whisper to him.
Kailorien.
