The journey back from the Wayfinder's Cairn was a blur of biting wind and growing tension. His body screamed with exhaustion, each ache a reminder of the relentless cold and the mental strain he'd endured. The Sleeping One's distant gaze still prickled at the edges of his awareness, a cold dread twisting in his gut. He, Alex Chen, felt like a man carrying a secret too heavy for one person, too unbelievable for anyone else to grasp. The responsibility weighed on him, a crushing burden of isolation.
As Emberhold's massive gates finally loomed, he felt a jolt of relief, quickly followed by a strange sadness. The city's warmth, the faint smell of hearth smoke and strange herbs, the distant murmur of a thousand lives—it was all so real, so immediate. Yet, it felt alien. He remembered the clean, quiet hum of his computer, the instant light from a switch, the effortless warmth of his old apartment. Here, warmth came from labor, light from oil, and even a simple bath would be a complex affair, requiring hauled water and heated stones. He was a creature of a different age, now navigating a reality far more brutal than he'd ever read about. The contrast made him ache with a familiar, quiet homesickness. He briefly wondered if he'd ever feel truly at home again, or if his existence was now permanently split between two irreconcilable realities.
They were quickly met by guards. Joric immediately rushed to his side, his young face pale with worry. "Lysander! You look… terrible. What happened?"
Elara's sharp eyes scanned him, missing nothing. She saw the new lines of strain around his mouth, the haunted look in his eyes that no amount of cold could explain. Gareth, ever silent, simply placed a large, comforting hand on his shoulder, his grip firm. They knew something immense had occurred, something beyond their understanding.
Lysander forced a weary smile. "The Cairn holds secrets. More than we could have imagined. We need to speak to the Council, now."
The Elder Council chamber felt colder than ever. He stood before the wizened figures, the pulsating pool of molten magic behind them casting an eerie glow. High Commander Valerius was there, his expression grim. Kaelen Alden stood near him, his arms crossed, his gaze shifting between Valerius and Lysander, a new intensity in his sharp eyes. He was clearly waiting for answers Lysander would provide.
"Private Thorne," the lead Elder, his eyes like burning coals, began, his voice surprisingly soft but filled with a quiet power. "Your aide, Private Joric, delivered your report. 'Unusual, widespread magical distortions' in the north. A recommendation against large-scale scrying rituals. We expect a more comprehensive account of your findings." The Elder's tone was measured, but Lysander could feel the underlying skepticism, the pride of mages who believed their ancient methods were supreme.
Lysander took a deep breath, forcing down the fatigue and the desperate urge to shout the truth. He knew he couldn't simply say, "A world-eating god is waking up and it's controlling the Orcs like puppets!" He had to speak their language, the language of logic and evidence, filtered through their understanding of magic.
"Elders," he began, his voice calm, clear, masking the frantic racing of his heart. "The Wayfinder's Cairn is indeed a place of immense power, but it is also a conduit. A place where the raw, elemental magic of these mountains intersects with a corrupted current." He paused, letting his words sink in. "Your scryers sensed 'unnatural static.' They were feeling this corruption. It is an insidious, ancient magic, unlike anything Emberhold has studied."
He continued, choosing his words carefully, weaving a narrative that hinted at the full truth without immediately revealing the mind-shattering concept of the Sleeping One. "Through painstaking work, I learned to distinguish this corrupted mana from the pure flow. And by pushing my senses, I was able to briefly pierce a grand illusion—a layer of reality draped over the northern wastes."
The Elders exchanged glances, their brows furrowing. This was new.
"What did you see, Private?" Elder Lyra asked, her voice dry, her sharp gaze probing, seeming to see beyond his practiced calm.
"I saw the Northern Hordes," he stated, his voice firm, projecting the confidence of undeniable fact. "Not merely scattered armies. But vast, precise formations moving with unnatural coordination. And overseeing them, directing their movements with unseen threads of corrupted energy, was a presence so ancient, so pervasive, it distorts reality itself. A consciousness buried deep beneath the ice." He kept his tone factual, almost academic, forcing his own fear into a cold box in his mind.
A gasp rippled through the room. Kaelen's eyes widened, his hand instinctively going to his sword hilt. Valerius's face, usually impassive, showed a flicker of grim recognition. The Elders, however, frowned deeper.
"A consciousness?" Elder Theron scoffed, his voice rumbling. "Private Thorne, you speak of legends as fact. A single entity directing an entire horde across a continent? Such power belongs only to the gods, or to fables."
"It is not a fable, Elder," he countered, a flicker of raw frustration tightening his jaw, though his voice remained steady. "It is a primordial Earth spirit, twisted by ancient shadow magic, now fully awake and actively waging war. Its influence isn't just physical; it's psychological. It turns fear to despair, hope to madness. It corrupts the very essence of beings and landscapes. Your divination rituals would become beacons for its attention, and your minds, unprepared for its insidious nature, would be compromised." He felt a surge of Alex Chen's impatience; this rigid, ancient thinking was infuriating when the world was at stake. He saw the doubt etched deep into their traditional faces, and pushed harder. "You felt the dissonance within the city's ley lines as I spoke, did you not? That was its influence, subtly reaching even here."
The Elders began to murmur amongst themselves, some shaking their heads, others looking genuinely disturbed. Valerius stepped forward, his gaze fixed on Thorne. "Thorne is right about the threat's unconventional nature, Elders. His insights at Thornwood proved invaluable against the Veil Weavers, a magic you also considered fables. We cannot afford to dismiss this."
He saw the flicker of doubt in some of the Elders' eyes, but also stubborn disbelief in others. He had given them the raw truth, filtered through logic, but the sheer scale was overwhelming. He hadn't won them over completely. Not yet.
"I have gained an ability, Elder," he pressed, making a calculated gamble. "To create a temporary illusion of clarity against this corruption. I can pierce its veil, see its influence, even if only for a moment. But I cannot fight it alone. Emberhold's unique elemental magic is key. We need to combine my ability to see the corruption with your power to cleanse and counter it." He didn't offer a demonstration, sensing it might be too much, too soon.
The lead Elder held up a hand, silencing the room. His burning eyes bored into him. "Your claims are… extraordinary, Private. If true, the implications are dire. If false, you have wasted precious time and risked much." He glanced at Elder Lyra, who simply watched Thorne with an unreadable, intense gaze, a silent assessment in her ancient eyes.
"We will deliberate on your full report, Private Thorne," the lead Elder finally said, his voice grave, the lingering skepticism in his tone still evident despite his visible disquiet. "You are dismissed. We will send for you when we have reached a decision."
Lysander bowed, the frustration heavy in his chest, yet a spark of grim satisfaction remained. He hadn't fully convinced them, but he hadn't been dismissed as a madman either. He had delivered the chilling truth, and planted the seeds of undeniable doubt. He walked out, his heart hammering, knowing the struggle for Emberhold's future—and the world's—had only just begun. The Elders now knew. What they would do with that knowledge, and how Lysander would force their hand, remained the critical next challenge.