The sky cracked open.
A beam of silver fire descended from the heavens, striking the summit of the Obsidian Spire. Lightning forked in every direction, painting the twilight sky with veins of divine fury. Below, the armies of mortals, Eldran, Hollowborn, and exiled gods all halted, breath held in anticipation, fear, or awe. The very world pulsed, as if gasping.
At the heart of the storm stood Altharion.
No longer cloaked in the dark veils of the Void, nor fully adorned in the celestial light of redemption, he was something else—something more. His armor, once forged from shadow and sorrow, now shimmered with a radiant sheen that flickered between the ethereal and the eternal. His wings, torn and regrown, were now lined with runes from both the Codex of Oblivion and the Tome of Aetherion.
He had transcended what he once was.
"Are you ready?" murmured Maelis, appearing beside him in her spectral form, both ghost and flame. "The Thrones will not go quietly."
"They never do," Altharion said, his voice deepened with power and purpose.
From the summit, he looked down upon the fractured battlefield. The Dominions of the Celestine Council had rallied one final time, rallying under banners of gold and judgment. Meanwhile, the remnants of his rebellion—Veilbearers, Archons of the Lost Cycle, the Aetherforged, and redeemed Eldran—stood poised for one last stand.
Altharion raised his hand. The world responded.
Reality trembled.
The Ebon Core, once his prison, now floated above the battlefield like a black sun. Instead of consuming, it now radiated—balancing entropy with creation. It had become a beacon, a fulcrum upon which the fate of the realms would pivot.
From it emerged Velian, the former Veilbearer, now fully restored—not in title, but in spirit. Clad in armor made from fragments of the shattered veil, Velian descended beside Altharion, bowing.
"Command me, Archon. This time, I rise for the right reason."
Altharion looked at him—not as a general, but as a brother. "Then rise not for me, Velian. Rise for us all."
The Thrones arrived.
Twelve beings made of pure axiomatic energy descended in silence. Their forms were impossible geometry—blinding, symmetrical, perfect. From them pulsed the Law of the Old Creation—order without question, dominion without consent.
"Altharion Veil," spoke the central Throne. "You stand in violation of the Eternal Accord. Surrender your ascension. Return the Ebon Core."
"No," Altharion said, stepping forward. "The Accord died the moment you chose to abandon the realms to burn. I'm not here to break order—I'm here to rewrite it."
The air howled.
Velian drew the Veilcleaver, a weapon forged from remorse and starlight, and flanked Altharion. Maelis extended her flameform into the sky, forming a phoenix sigil that cast light even upon the Thrones.
Across the battlefield, armies surged.
The final battle had begun—not merely for survival, but for the shape of eternity itself. What once was war for power had become a crucible for transcendence.
As Altharion leapt into the sky, sword in one hand, light in the other, his cry rang out:
"Let the new epoch rise—not on ashes, but on truth."