The wind howled over the jagged cliffs of Morr's Reach, where once the Veil had cracked, and where now stood an army not of conquest—but of purpose. Below, the remnants of fractured kingdoms gathered in wary unity. Humans, Veyari, Stoneborn, and even the elusive Windcallers stood side by side. Where there had once been mistrust and bloodshed, there was now a fragile thread of cooperation—woven by hard-earned understanding and an even harder truth: the world would not survive divided.
At the heart of this tenuous alliance stood Lira, her silver-bladed staff gleaming beneath a bruised sky. Beside her, Kael—the former Veilbearer—wore no crown, no mark of power. Only scars, and a silent determination carved into every line of his face. Though many still viewed him with suspicion, none could deny the quiet fire that burned in him now. Not the fire of ambition, but of penance.
"It won't hold," muttered General Corvan, eyeing the arcane barrier stretching across the mouth of the ruined pass. "The Rift is expanding. The shadow creatures grow bolder with each dawn."
"They're not waiting anymore," Lira agreed. "They know we're coming."
Behind them, preparations stirred. Artificers etched glowing runes into war machines made of brass and bone. Spellcasters rehearsed incantations under the guidance of the Circle of Thorns. The armies were diverse, chaotic—but resolute.
Kael moved through the ranks like a phantom, checking defenses, giving no speeches. He saved his voice for the Veil.
It was on the eve of battle that he stood before the Council once more. The same chamber where once he had demanded allegiance as Veilbearer. Now, he stood unarmed, save for memory.
"The Veil wasn't just a prison," he said, voice quiet but steady. "It was a mirror. It showed me everything I feared. Everything I had buried in pursuit of control. I thought I could save the world by mastering it. Instead, I almost ended it."
The room was silent, but eyes met his. Not with blind forgiveness, but something heavier—trust earned through pain.
"We stand on the edge of the Last Rift. Beyond it is not just darkness, but the echo of every soul we failed. I won't ask you to follow me. I ask only that you stand with each other. This isn't about me. It never was."
When he stepped down, no one clapped. No one needed to. Actions, not titles, had carried him here.
That night, the sky cracked again.
But this time, the world cracked back.
Beneath the blood-colored moon, the armies of the united realms marched. Kael rode at the center—not as a king, not even as a commander. But as a man who had lost everything, and in doing so, found something more powerful: clarity.
And beside him rode Lira, the Seer who had never stopped believing in redemption. Between them sparked not romance, but something rarer—trust forged in prophecy and battle.
The Rift loomed ahead, vast and pulsing, like a wound in the world. Within, the final threat waited. The true enemy, who had manipulated gods and monsters alike. The one no prophecy had dared name.
As they reached the edge of the broken earth, Kael turned once more to the assembled host.
"No more masks. No more Veils."
And they charged—into the storm, into the unknown, into the final war.