For it is said, only that which hasn't triggered the werewolf curse by taking a life would be able to give life to the fountain.
The skies over Noctharin (the Hollow Wastes) grew restless, mirroring the rising fear among its scattered people. Children vanished into the cold. The earth cracked in unnatural places. Night beasts howled long before sundown. Something ancient stirred in the shadows, and deep within the frostbound veins of Syltharion (the Ice Fountain), the old power bled quietly away.
Morvane knew it.
And for once, the warrior chose silk and wine over steel. That evening, he hosted a rare gathering at the Watchers' western outpost, a celebration dressed in candlelight and false laughter, meant to hush suspicion and conceal the war blooming in his mind.
Vareon stood nearby, dressed in formality, uncertain beneath the weight of music and wine.
"Why this party?" he asked, glancing at the skies. "Even the winds carry the scent of danger."
Morvane filled his goblet with a steady hand.
"Because distraction is the oldest weapon. Let them dance while I count the knives."
Behind the torches and silk, he met with the Watchers' Seer. The prophecy had been read again, and its meaning was clear. One of noble blood would one day choose willingly to destroy the Fountain to restore balance. But the chosen, marked by the Fountain itself, had not yielded.
Kaelen still resisted.
"He refuses the call," Morvane whispered.
The Seer lowered her gaze.
"It must be a willing sacrifice. That is the curse's binding thread."
His expression darkened.
"Then we will break his spirit. We will tear away all he loves, until surrender is the only light left in him."
And already, the storm was gathering.
In the servants' quarters, away from the revelry, Seriane stood quietly by the window. The flickering torchlight from the party shimmered in her eyes.
"This place is bleeding," she said, voice soft. "And no one sees it."
Kaelen stepped closer, brushing her hair behind her ear.
"We see it. And that's why we leave."
"We can't go without Eryndor," she said.
He hesitated.
"He belongs to this world. We don't."
"But he loves me," she whispered. And Kaelen, though silent, felt the fracture growing in his chest.
Out on the edges of the estate, Vareon moved like a man haunted by whispers. His instincts tugged. Something was unraveling. He found Eryndor alone, rehearsing incantations in the stillness of night.
"Why aren't you inside?" he asked.
Eryndor didn't look up.
"The spells fail. It's as if the land itself is rejecting magic."
Vareon stepped closer.
"Seriane wanted to run. She said it aloud. With Kaelen."
The boy turned slowly.
"With Kaelen?" he repeated.
Vareon didn't answer. The silence hung like fog between them.
That night, Seriane vanished.
They found her beneath the dry creek tree, cold, still, untouched by blood or blade. A silent fall. A fading flower in a world beginning to rot.
Eryndor fell to his knees.
Kaelen shattered.
He burst through the celebration like a storm, blade flashing, grief roaring from his throat.
"You killed her!"
Eryndor didn't fight back. He stepped forward with trembling hands.
"I loved her."
Kaelen's sword came down.
And Morvane was already moving.
Steel met steel. The music died. A frozen hush fell as Morvane disarmed him with a twist, forcing Kaelen to his knees.
"You dare raise your hand to nobility?" His voice carried through the air like thunder.
"He murdered her!" Kaelen shouted.
Morvane gave the signal.
The guards came. Rough hands dragged Kaelen away as he screamed her name into the night. And Morvane, with lips barely moving, whispered something soft and cruel.
"Now the chosen will see what love costs."
Above them all, cloaked in shadow, the Watcher Seer lit a single black candle. The first seal had been broken. The world would soon forget how the chaos began, only that it had.