The convergence neared its final phase. The fractured skies pulsed with unnatural hues, and the ground itself trembled like a slumbering beast preparing to awaken. All across the realms—mortal and arcane alike—there was silence before the storm.
Altharion stood at the edge of the Obsidian Spire, overlooking the vast Rift Beyond Realms. The swirling maelstrom of chaotic energies was the product of a dying god's will and centuries of forgotten rituals. This was it—the tear between worlds that would either birth salvation or annihilate everything.
Behind him stood the Circle of Broken Flame, now fully reformed. Klyria, the reforged Veilbearer, stepped forward. Her once tormented face now bore clarity, purpose. "It has begun," she said, her voice calm despite the maelstrom's roar.
Altharion gave a small nod. "And we are the fulcrum."
From the Rift's center, a claw emerged—ethereal yet massive. The void dragon, Nihrazul, stirred, attempting to breach the veil between dimensions. With every second, his influence grew stronger, seeping into minds, cracking fortresses of willpower. The Archon of Oblivion, long thought dead, would now meet the true face of nothingness.
"You all know what must be done," Altharion addressed the Circle. "There is no prophecy guiding us, no ancient text detailing the outcome. Just us—our choices, our sacrifices."
Each member nodded. They had all walked through fire, betrayal, loss, and awakening. None remained who were untouched by darkness.
Suddenly, Nihrazul's eye opened in the sky—a single, burning crimson orb. It glared into the soul of the world, and whispers began to slither into everyone's minds.
You cannot stop what was written in the stars. All will return to void. Even you, Archon.
Altharion stepped forward, channeling every ounce of his arcane might. His aura flared—a brilliant sapphire flame crackling with void-touched lightning. "Then I'll write a new fate with your ashes."
He dove into the Rift, wings of raw magic unfolding from his back. The Circle followed, a synchronized descent into the storm of unreality.
Inside the Rift, the world twisted and contorted. Logic broke down. Time fractured. Klyria's form flickered between past and present, her own regrets clawing at her. She nearly faltered—until a memory of her former students, long dead, resurfaced. Their laughter anchored her.
Altharion reached the core where Nihrazul's heart, a churning mass of primal entropy, pulsed.
"This is where it ends!" he cried, unleashing the Binding Flare—a spell of forbidden origin, fueled by his soul's very essence.
The dragon shrieked, its voice fracturing realms. The Circle followed with their own soul-forged magic, weaving together threads of order, memory, love, and pain—everything that made their world real.
Nihrazul began to unravel, his form no longer sustained by the chaos he thrived upon. The Rift collapsed inwards, like a reversed explosion.
Klyria turned to Altharion as reality reasserted itself. "We did it."
Altharion, drained and bloodied, smiled faintly. "We held the line."
They emerged back into the mortal realm, the sky now calm, the rift sealed. But not all returned. Some of the Circle had given everything.
The world was saved. For now.
But in the stillness, Altharion looked up. A single black feather drifted from the sky—one of Nihrazul's remnants.
"We bought time," he whispered, "but the war is far from over."