The veil between realms shimmered like water disturbed by stormwinds, and through it stepped Seraphiel, barefoot upon the silver grass of a forgotten glade that should not have existed.
Above, the moon hung shattered, cracked in four jagged places, bleeding pale light like a dying god. Each beam touched the glade like memory—soft, aching, holy.
And beneath that broken moon, the host stirred.
She had summoned them all.
And they had come.
From beyond the Shardspires, where the sky wept obsidian rain, rode the Vyrn—antlered warriors carved from living quartz, their eyes glowing with the memory of extinct stars.
From the Hollow Valleys, where time wore a funeral mask, came the Whispersworn, wrapped in memory instead of skin, their voices always crying out for forgotten names that once sh
