-Tan'Thalon, Lower district-
The air was still wet from the weather system that had stopped the rain only minutes earlier, leaving the cobblestones slick and glimmering beneath the street lights. The Iron Vanguard moved in disciplined formation, as befitted their military status. Their armor was muted with dark cloth wrappings to avoid drawing unwanted attention. Ahead of them was their commander, Serenya, leading them. Her helmet tucked under one arm, letting her shoulder length hair neatly held up by a pin be visible. Her expression was carved from the same iron as her helmet.
"Keep your eyes open. This quarter is too quiet. If the Wardens are moving Lazulli through here, someone's paying to keep mouths shut."
Captain Elira walked besides her, scanning the alleys. Behind them, two pairs of soldiers hauled a small cart with confiscated crates. Evidence from earlier raids. Elira spoke quietly.
"You think the council will actually act, Commander?"
"They will when I give them no choice. Until then, we dig. Every crate, every whisper, every rat that scurries where the light doesn't reach."
A few paces ahead, Sergeant Varros halted, crouching beside a drainage grate. He pointed to a faint blueish to purple glow seeping through the iron bars. The blue was a telltale shimmer of Lazulli crystal. But there was something off about this.
"Here. The same glow we found at the warehouse. But there's something strange about it. And it's running down the drain. They're dumping it, not storing it."
Serenya frowned. "No one wastes Lazulli. Not unless it's tainted."
She knelt, her gloved hand brushing the wet stones. The faint lazulli residue pulsed faintly under her touch, reacting to her presence, but then flickered out like a dying heartbeat.
"Could it be some kind of ritual discharge? Like a ward anchor?" Elvira asked.
"Or a cover." Serenya answered "If they're poisoning Lazulli lines beneath the city, the wall's integrity could already be compromised."
She straightened, scanning the mist-shrouded street. In the haze, she saw a shape move, a beggar perhaps. Serenya signaled a halt. Her Vanguard raised their spears in response. In a commanding tone, she called out.
"You there. Step into the light."
A ragged looking man stumbled forward, his eyes wild and hands shaking. His skin was streaked with what looked like ground Lazulli crystals, his veins glowing faintly like cracks in old glass. He babbled incoherently.
"Can't sleep – the light under the floor – whispers from the stones – they said it would show me truth–"
Before Serenya could step closer, the man collapsed, twitching. His body convulsed once, and the glow faded completely. Shyra's earlier warnings echoed in Serenya's mind.
Elira checked the body.
"He's gone. Gods… "
"Not Gods." Serenya said under her breath "This is all on humanity…"
"It looks like withdrawal symptoms, but from Lazulli? I didn't know they'd experiment with that. Commander, there's nothing left in his system. It looks like it drained him."
"Or something took him."
Serenya stood up, scanning the alleys again, and noticed faint markings scratched into the wall above the drain: a closed-eyed symbol. Someone tried to scrub it off, but traces remained. Elira took notes to investigate it further.
"They're right beneath us." Serenya said quietly "The whole quarter's a mask."
"What do we do?" Elira asked.
"We go down. Map every drain, every Lazulli seep. If they're tunneling rituals under the city, I want every route before sunrise. No more shadows."
She paused, glancing once more at the dead beggar. The faint smell of ozone lingered in the air, and just for a heartbeat, she thought she heard whispers below the cobblestones, murmuring in an ancient, unseen tongue.
Serenya said to herself, almost like a prayer "May May'Jahan's light still reach this deep…".
The Vanguard marched on, their boots echoing through the wet streets, unaware that below them – through cracks of the lower drains – faint eyes were already watching. As they turned away, they shimmered a faint green glow.
-Tan'Thalon, Council hall-
After yet another long, grueling session, the council's great hall was emptying. Yes, it wasn't easy running such a big city. Let alone a city that was the thrumming heart of Lazulli Magis distribution. Lanterns burned low now, stretching shadows along the decorated walls. In a dim alcove of the great hall, Councilor Halvek lingered behind shuffling some papers. He was a cautious, aging noble, clad in a white and silver robe. Steps rang softly on the stone behind.
"Long day, Halvek. These endless debates wear on us all, don't they?"
Halvek looked over his shoulder, tired and wary.
"They do, Lord Eldarion. But we must be thorough. The desert is not a foe we can strike down with a blade."
Eldarion smiled faintly, almost kind.
"True enough. But blades are not the only weapons, are they? Will, resolve, certainty… these matter just as much. And the council, I fear, drowns itself in caution. In hesitation. While the sands creep closer each day."
Halvek sighed. "You speak with conviction, but conviction alone cannot hold a wall."
Eldarion leaned in, his eyes glinted.
"No. But conviction can hold a council. And a council can command resources, armies, wards. If… it rallies behind someone willing to act, instead of wringing hands while villages vanish."
Halvek shifted uncomfortably, sensing the weight beneath Eldarion's words. The latter's tone sharpened, but never rose above a conspiratorial murmur.
"Think of it, Halvek. The people cry for strength. They see a divided council, a blind champion wandering their alleys, whispers of cults spreading like rot. What they need is a paladin — chosen of May'jahan, sworn to shield them. If you and a few others stood with me, if you lent your voices to mine… we could turn hesitation into action. Real action."
Halvek's response came quiet and easy.
"You would ask me to choose sides. That path is dangerous."
Eldarion chuckled softly, placing a hand on Halvek's shoulder.
"All paths are dangerous now, old friend. But tell me — which is worse: standing with strength, or watching weakness bury Tan'thalon beneath sand?"
After a long pause, Halvek swallowed, glancing down the hall to ensure they were alone. He gave Eldarion the faintest of nods, making Eldarion's smile harden, satisfied.
Eldarion then said quietly, almost as if to himself.
"Good. One voice becomes two. Two will become four. And soon enough, the council will remember where true power lies."
-Tan'Thalon, The drainage tunnels-
The air was damp in the drainage tunnels. That was to be expected from an environment of which the entire purpose was to store and evacuate excess water from the city. The heavy metallic scent, that was typical when Lazulli crystals were being processed, was not. Blue light bled from cracks in the stone, running in jagged veins beneath the city's skin. It was here that Iron Vanguard, led by Serenya Kael, were following up on a lead, moving in silence.
"Doesn't look like any smuggler's path I've seen. Feels… wrong down here." Varros said quietly.
Serenya's response came gruff.
"Rot always starts where no one looks. Keep your spacing tight. Lanterns low."
The light from their lanterns flickered as they advanced, adding to a tone of mystery. Drips echoed like distant footfalls. After a while, they reached a junction where the runoff pools, and the water glowed faintly blue. Elira knelt, touching the surface.
"It's warm.. This isn't runoff. It's some sort of oil… Lazulli oil — refined, but spoiled. It's moving."
The liquid shifted slightly, drawn towards a nearby grate as though pulled by a pulse. Serenya signaled silence, then gestured for two soldiers to pry the grate open. They did so by using their spears as leverage, gently coaxing the grate from its hinges. Steam rose as they forced it loose. Serenya went first, shield raised. When she didn't see any immediate action, she signaled for the rest to follow. Beyond lied a large chamber, lit by the pale shimmer of shards of Lazulli crystals in the walls. The whole thing looked like a display of diseased stars.
"By the Light… what is this place?" Serenya muttered.
Elira was not as stoic and gasped at the sight she just walked into. Her expression was only masked behind her blonde locks that reached a little lower than her shoulders. The chamber she had just walked into was circular and had every vibe of a ritual workshop. Tables lined the walls, scattered with tools, gears, and fragments of armor. And on one slab laid a body – or at least what used to be one. Metal plates had been grafted into its flesh, tubes running through its arms with a blueish liquid. Elira only assumed it was the same oil they had discovered earlier. Its chest cavity glowed faintly from within, pulsing. Like a grim mockery of a heartbeat.
Varros grimaced. "Whoever did this was trying to rebuild him. But… why use Lazulli as blood?"
"I don't think we can refer to it as Lazulli anymore at this point." Serenya stated as she stepped closer.
She frowned at the blackened sigils etched across the body's ribs. They were half runes of Ba'Ham and half arcanist circuitry. The blend of magic and engineering made her stomach turn.
"This isn't smuggling. It's manufacturing. They're trying to make something."
As she spoke, the corpse twitched. The glow in its chest brightened to a blueish green hue. Gears started to grind inside its limbs. Then its eyes snapped open, burning the same blueish green. It let out a distorted, mechanical scream.
Serenya took immediate action and shouted. "Contact! Shields up!"
The corpse lunged from the slab with jerky, yet powerful movements. The nearest Vanguard slashed its arm off – only for the strange blueish green filaments to snake from the wound, pulling the limb back into place. Sparks crackled where flesh met machine. Elira struggled with the grim contraption as it reached for her. Varros saved her by grabbing its arm, trying to overpower the machine. But it was too strong.
"It's repairing itself! Cut the Lazulli lines!" Elira shouted.
Serenya jumped in, driving her sword through the creature's chest. With the force of velocity behind her, the creature tumbled over on one of the slabs. After this chaos, she noticed it was pinned to the slab in the process. The strange oil spilled out – luminous and foul. The body convulsed, then went still, the light inside fading to darkness. As she pried her sword free, there was one thing on Serenya's mind.
"We really need another name than Lazulli for this stuff. Gleam perhaps.."
Varros breathed hard. "Light preserve us… what in the gods' name was that?"
Before anyone could answer, another noise rose from the far end of the chamber. A chorus of metallic groans. More figures stepped into the dim light. Three more corpses, each differently augmented. One had a spine of the same blueish green coils the, now dead again, corpse had. Another's jaw was replaced by brass plating and the last one had gears coming from its arms and its fingers were replaced with metal. Still, they moved in halting unison. Serenya showed her leadership, remaining steady and calm.
"Formation. Target their cores — the Gleam heart. Don't let them touch you."
"Lazulli.." Elira protested.
"It gave up the right to that name when it became liquid."
The ensuing fight promised to be brutal and claustrophobic. As if the confines of the room weren't enough, there were now six people and three moving corpses in it, one dead one and three tables full of junk. When the metal handed corpse lunged, Varros parried it. Sparks flashed as sword met corrupted metal. The undead moved unpredictably – half guided by necromantic instinct, half by broken magitech commands. One grabbed a Vanguard soldier by the throat, its touch burned with arcane energy before Serenya cleaved its arm off.
"They were people, Commander! Look — city marks! One's still got a merchant insignia!" Elira yelled.
Serenya froze for just a moment, enough to see that Elira was right. Beneath the plating, the corpse's tattered cloak still beared the crest of the merchant's guild.
"Then Ba'ham's rot runs deeper than the council thinks."
Serenya blocked the iron jawed corpse with her shield, preventing it from blindsiding Elira.
"Iron Vanguard! We will take them down one by one. Start with Iron Fist, then iron jaw and iron spine last." Serenya's voice was stern and commanding. She always had a knack for rallying her troops.
While Elira drew its attention by grabbing one of the nearby tools from a table and throwing it in the corpse with metal hands', now named Iron fist by Serenya, face, Varros and Serenya moved into position to block its strikes. With a display of teamwork, both of them guided Iron fist's strikes away with their swords, leaving its gleaming core wide open. One of the soldiers saw the opportunity and delivered the final blow, driving his sword through its core, spilling its blueish green content. The other two soldiers were having a hard time keeping the other corpses at bay. Iron jaw had gotten a firm lock on the soldier's sword, sending him flying with a swing of his arm. The unlucky bloke was sent tumbling into one of the heavy tables. Serenya turned around just in time to see the corpse take the sword from its mouth and bring it down on the soldier. She was just about to shout, but then saw the corpse falter, the tip of another sword piercing out of its chest. It collapsed, only to reveal Elira standing behind it.
"Good job Elira!" Serenya shouted.
The last soldier kept the last corpse busy, just barely managing to hold his shield against its strikes. This time it was Varros that delivered the final blow. He proved to be a crowd pleaser as she slid over a slab, grabbed the corpse by the shoulder, spinning it to face him and rather brutally drove his sword through its core. He then finished by punching it in the face.
The chamber fell silent again, save for the heavy breathing of the Vanguard and the dripping of the oil. Serenya stepped forward, pulling a shard from one of the creature's chest cavities. It still pulsed faintly in her hand.
"Failed experiments. Or… sacrifices. Someone's learning how to merge death with Lazulli flow." She said more to herself.
"For what purpose?" Varros questioned.
"Power. Control. Maybe immortality. Whatever it is… it's not done yet."
She looked around the chamber one last time. At the broken machinery, the sigils, the faint smell of ozone and death. Then she turned to her squad.
"Seal this place. I want the analyst down here at first light to study this filth. We'll need proof before the council believes me again."
As the Vanguard prepared to leave, the sickly shards on the walls began to shimmer again. Almost as if something deeper in the tunnels had awakened.
Serenya continued quietly and uneasy. "And light help us if this wasn't the worst of it."
-The desert, Temple of Bahk'Ehmet-
Dust hung in the air where the light had been, swirling in slow spirals that caught faint traces of color. The basin lay cracked and dark, its flame extinguished. Only the faint scent of rain and burned stone remained—a contradiction that made Talia's head swim. The Nyxir crouched beside the fallen Diviner, his wings half-spread like a mourning shroud.
"She shielded you," he said quietly. "The temple called for the light of the Paladin, the pure memory, not her. She stepped forward in your place."
Talia dropped to her knees beside them, trembling hands searching for a pulse. There—weak, but steady.
"Why would she do that?"
The Nyxir tilted his head, eyes reflecting what little light remained. "Because she guessed what it wanted, and what she could give instead. She gambled that her protector would see her through."
"May'Jahan," Talia breathed.
"Yes." His gaze lingered on the silver veins glowing faintly beneath her skin. "The Mother's touch has not left her. You were right to trust that something watched her. It seems she trusted it more than her own life."
Talia's throat closed. The Diviner's face was still, peaceful in a way that looked almost wrong.
"She thought it wanted me," she whispered. "She thought it would stop if it had her instead."
The Nyxir nodded once. "A desperate calculation. But not unwise."
"She could've told me—"
"She did," he interrupted gently. "In every word she didn't say."
Talia stared at her hands, still warm from where she'd caught the Diviner's body.
"I thought I could protect her. I should've—"
"You were never meant to protect her from the gods," the Nyxir said. "Only to walk beside her when they reached for her."
The silence that followed was heavy and unkind.
"We can't leave this place standing," Talia said finally. "If it wakes again—if anyone else wanders in—"
"It will devour them," the Nyxir finished. "Yes. The memory of fire never dies; it only waits to be fed."
Talia rose to her feet, anger burning low and controlled in her chest.
"Then we starve it. Collapse the vault. Seal it under the dunes."
"You think that will destroy it?"
"Maybe not," she admitted. "But it'll keep others safe."
The Nyxir's gaze followed the cracked carvings along the wall, the once-living stone now split and weeping fine trails of glowing dust.
"It feeds on memory," he said slowly. "If we could make it forget—"
"Forget?"
"Erase its connection to the divine. Scatter its story so that no prayer, no relic, no curious fool can wake it again."
"How?"
"Through sacrifice," the Nyxir murmured. "Through the surrender of names." He glanced down at the Diviner, then at Talia. "She's already given hers once. You could give yours too."
Talia froze. "You mean—erase us from it?"
"And from it, erase itself. If it cannot remember who touched it, it cannot call for more."
Talia looked down at the Diviner again—at the faint, steady shimmer beneath her skin. Her chest tightened with a painful, familiar mix of fury and love.
"If I do that," she said hoarsely, "will it save her?"
"It might," the Nyxir said. "Or it might leave her untethered—an echo with no past. But it would end the temple's hunger."
Talia bowed her head. "She'd say it's worth it."
"Would you?"
Talia didn't answer. She brushed her fingers across the Diviner's forehead, feeling the pulse of divine warmth still fighting beneath her skin.
"We'll find another way," she said finally. "We'll bury it. Trap it. Whatever it takes to keep it from touching her again."
The Nyxir tilted his head, the faintest smile flickering across his sharp features. "You're stubborn for a human."
"I learned from someone worse," Talia said softly.
The Nyxir's gaze softened. "Then perhaps there is hope."
Outside, the wind began to rise, carrying sand through the cracks of the temple. The air grew heavy, the floor beneath them trembling as if the ancient ruin itself listened—and resented their resolve.
"It knows what we plan," the Nyxir whispered. "It's sinking."
"Then we move," Talia said, sliding her arm beneath the Diviner's shoulders. "Now."
The Nyxir spread his wings, the air around him humming with barely restrained power.
"Go. I'll keep the way open."
Talia hesitated only long enough to glance back at the basin—at the faint shimmer of blue where May'Jahan's presence had lingered.
"Please," she whispered, though she didn't know to whom, "don't let her sacrifice be for nothing."
Then the sand roared downward, and the last light of the temple vanished beneath it. The ground lurched beneath them, a deep, shuddering groan that rippled through the floor and up their bones. Dust fell like rain from the ceiling. The carvings on the walls flared one last time—fiery veins of orange and red—before flickering into darkness.
"It's going," the Nyxir hissed. His talons scraped the stone as he steadied himself. "The temple is sinking into the sand."
Talia tightened her grip on the Diviner's arm, half lifting her as she stumbled.
"Then we don't stay to watch."
But the floor gave way beneath them before they could move—cracks racing like lightning, sand pouring in through the fractures, hungry and endless. The Diviner gasped, throwing out her hand on instinct. The air hummed, the fine hairs on Talia's arms rising as the scent of ozone and dust filled the room.
The collapse stopped. For a heartbeat, the world held still.
The sand churned and froze mid-flow, suspended in a shimmering lattice of gold and white light. The ground beneath them steadied. The Diviner stood rigid, her face pale, her hair lifting slightly in the unseen currents of power.
"You're holding it," Talia realized. "You're keeping the whole thing up."
"Trying to," the Diviner said through clenched teeth. "I can feel it tearing itself apart. The memory doesn't want to be forgotten."
"Then let it fall!"
"Not yet." She staggered forward, one arm extended, the other gripping her staff. "If it sinks now, it'll drag the valley down with it. The sands will bury the ruins, the village, everything."
The strain in her voice cut through Talia like a blade. The Diviner's hands trembled violently, arcs of earthen magic crackling along her arms—glowing veins of dull, fractured gold. It wasn't just earth she was holding. It was time, resisting the temple's unraveling.
"You're not strong enough for this!" Talia shouted.
"You've said that before," the Diviner gasped, trying to smile, though it looked more like a grimace. "And I proved you wrong then too."
The sand began to move again, slower now but still relentless. The temple's foundations moaned in protest. Every second she held it was a second closer to collapse.
"Diviner—"
"Go!" she snapped, voice cracking with the effort. "Take what's left of your gods and run!"
Talia hesitated, caught between duty and instinct, between the pull of May'Jahan and the pulse of something older in her chest. But then the Nyxir's voice cut through the roar.
"She's right. It won't hold. You must get her out of here before it all comes down."
Talia turned to him—and froze. The Nyxir wasn't following. His claws dug into the stone, wings spread wide as he faced the deepening collapse.
"You're staying?" she asked.
"Someone must watch," he said simply. "The temple still breathes. It will try to return. I can hold it here—at least long enough for the sands to claim it."
"You'll die."
"Perhaps. But I am not without purpose." He turned his head, one bright, reflective eye meeting hers. "If you would honor me, Paladin, then help another."
"Another?"
"One of my kin. A female, trapped in the ruins of the old village. I cannot recall her name—its echo is lost to me." His voice softened, strangely vulnerable. "If you find her, give her one. Names keep us from the dark."
The Diviner, still straining to hold the temple's structure together, managed a breathless chuckle. "We'll save Foxglove."
The Nyxir's gaze flicked to her. "Foxglove?"
"Foxglove," the Diviner said, her voice thin but clear. "Beautiful. Poisonous. Hard to forget."
The Nyxir blinked once, then bowed his head in acknowledgment.
"Foxglove," he repeated softly, as though the word itself gave him strength.
The temple roared then—a sound like the earth itself screaming. The sand walls began to buckle.
"Go!" the Nyxir shouted, spreading his wings to brace against the gale. "Before it swallows you both!"
Talia slung the Diviner's arm over her shoulders, half-dragging, half-guiding her through the collapsing corridor. Every step was a battle—the sand shifting beneath them, the air thick with choking dust and magic gone feral. The light from Talia's gauntlet flickered madly, struggling to keep its shape as the temple's power unraveled around them. Behind them, the Nyxir's roar echoed through the dark.
"Remember her name!"
And then, the ceiling gave way.
The last thing Talia saw before the sand consumed the light was the Diviner's hand, outstretched toward the crumbling earth, holding it back one final heartbeat longer than anyone should've been able to.
Long enough for them to escape. Long enough to live.
The night was mercifully quiet. The wind that had howled through the desert hours earlier had softened to a whisper, tracing the dunes with silver light. The temple—once a monolith half-buried beneath the sands—was gone, swallowed whole by the earth that had long grown tired of its hunger. Two figures lay sprawled in the cool sand beside a broken archway that jutted from the ground like the rib of some ancient beast. The air was still, save for the ragged sound of breathing. Talia stirred first. Her armor was scorched in places, sand ground into the seams. Every joint ached as if she'd been crushed, reassembled, and left to dry under the sun. She blinked up at the stars—bright and distant, indifferent to the chaos below—and for a moment couldn't tell if she was alive or still trapped in the temple's last dream. Beside her, the Diviner was motionless. Panic snapped through the haze. Talia scrambled to her side, hands shaking as she pressed fingers to the woman's throat.
A pulse. Slow. Steady.
Relief hit her so hard it left her dizzy.
"Still reckless," she murmured, brushing dust from the Diviner's cheek. "Still impossible."
The Diviner didn't stir. The faintest glow pulsed beneath her skin—May'Jahan's lingering mark—and Talia found herself wondering whether the goddess still watched, or if that divine mercy had already passed on. Exhaustion swallowed her then, dragging her under before she could resist. She fell sideways into the sand, head turned toward the Diviner, and darkness claimed her again.
She dreamed of marble halls and candlelight. The air was perfumed with jasmine and ink, the faint rustle of silk echoing through a chamber too pristine to feel lived in. Talia knew instantly this wasn't her memory. The air was wrong—the weight of expectation thicker than armor. A young girl stood before a gilded mirror. She couldn't have been more than twelve, her hair dark and neatly braided, her eyes—familiar eyes—wide and frightened. She held a silver diadem in her hands as if it were a weapon she didn't yet know how to wield. Behind her, a woman's voice spoke—sharp, deliberate, perfect in tone.
"Stand straighter, Calenelda. A ruler must never bow, even to her own doubt."
The girl flinched. "Yes, Mother."
"And remember what we've told you. You may listen, you may smile, but you will never trust. The moment you do, they will take everything from you. Your name, your bloodline, your throne. Happiness is a distraction. Love is a weakness. Power is all that endures."
The girl—Calenelda, Talia realized—nodded, though tears welled at the edges of her eyes. She turned slightly, as if searching for someone who might contradict the words, someone who might tell her it wasn't true. But the hall was empty. She was utterly alone.
"Do you understand?" the woman asked.
Calenelda hesitated. "Yes, Mother."
"Good. Now, smile."
The girl lifted her chin, forcing the practiced, graceful expression of a noble trained to perform serenity. Talia felt her heart twist in her chest. She recognized that look. It was the same calm mask the Diviner wore whenever she lied about how much she cared. The dream flickered. The reflection in the mirror shifted—older now, sharper, the same woman Talia knew—but there was something fractured in her eyes.
"If they see me," the Diviner whispered to her reflection, "they'll break me."
The glass cracked.
Talia woke with a jolt, sand sticking to her cheek, heart pounding. The moon was high overhead, cold and silver. The dream's voice lingered, echoing faintly in her skull. Beside her, the Diviner was sitting up. Her hair was wild, her eyes still faintly aglow. She was watching the dunes as if trying to read them. When she noticed Talia stirring, she smiled—a lazy, lopsided grin that carried none of her old restraint.
"Morning, Wildfire."
"It's night," Talia muttered. "And I think we almost died."
"Then it's a good morning," the Diviner replied. She stretched, wincing slightly but grinning all the same. "We made it out. That counts for something."
Talia studied her. There was something in the way the Diviner moved now—looser, unguarded. The usual caution in her eyes was gone, replaced by something bright and dangerous.
"You seem… different."
The Diviner tilted her head. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"I didn't say that."
"Didn't you?" she teased, and the smirk she gave was more daring than Talia had ever seen.
Talia hesitated. She thought of the dream—the young girl forced to smile, to hide, to fear her own happiness. She wondered if the Diviner's newfound recklessness wasn't corruption at all… but liberation.
"Maybe this is who you were before the fear," Talia said softly.
The Diviner blinked, the grin faltering for the briefest moment. Then she laughed—a low, genuine sound.
"Maybe," she said. "Though I can't say I miss her yet."
Talia smiled faintly. "No. But I think I might."
The Diviner's gaze softened. "Careful, Wildfire. You're starting to sound sentimental."
"Someone has to," Talia said, and leaned back against the cool sand, watching the moonlight trace the lines of the Diviner's face.
The temple was gone. The gods were silent. But for the first time, the Diviner didn't seem afraid to be seen. And somehow, that was more dangerous—and more beautiful—than any fire Talia had ever known.
The desert was still. The only sound was the soft rustle of wind against the dunes and the occasional creak of Talia's armor as she shifted, sitting cross-legged beside the small campfire they'd managed to coax from driftwood and broken temple beams. The moon hung low, pale and wide, painting the Diviner's face in soft silver as she sat across from her, cloak wrapped loosely around her shoulders. The faint light of May'Jahan's touch still lingered beneath her skin—subtle now, like veins of starlight under flesh. For a while, they said nothing. There was peace in the silence, but it was uneasy—like standing at the edge of something vast, knowing the ground might give way.
Finally, Talia broke it.
"You've changed."
The Diviner arched an eyebrow, smirking faintly. "That sounds ominous."
"It's not. Just… true." Talia's gaze flicked up from the fire. "You're different now. Reckless. Unfiltered. It's like you stopped looking over your own shoulder."
"I did," the Diviner said simply. "There's no one left there to frighten me."
Talia frowned. "That's what worries me."
The Diviner leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "You think I'm broken."
"No," Talia said after a pause. "Just… unsteady. You lost your fear all at once. It didn't fade—it was torn out of you. You never got the time to adjust to who you are without it."
The Diviner's smile faltered, softening into something quieter. "You think fear keeps people balanced."
"I think it keeps us alive," Talia said. "A paladin learns to respect it—like fire. Too little, and you forget it can burn you."
The Diviner looked into the flames, her expression unreadable. "You sound like Ba'Ham himself."
"And you sound like someone trying very hard not to admit I'm right."
That earned a quiet laugh. The Diviner tilted her head, studying Talia for a long moment.
"You talk like I'm the only one who's changed. But you've lost something too."
Talia stiffened. "What do you mean?"
"The temple took a memory from you," the Diviner said softly. "I saw it—the one it claimed. The moment you realized who you were. The pain of it. The courage that followed."
Talia's throat tightened. "You remember it?"
"I do." Her tone was careful—gentle, even. "That's why I know you've lost more than you realize. You've lost a piece of your fear too. The fear of being seen. The fear of what loving might cost you."
The words struck deeper than any blade could. Talia looked away, jaw tightening, eyes fixed on the fire.
"Maybe that's a good thing."
"It could be," the Diviner agreed. "Or it could make you reckless too." She leaned back slightly, the smirk returning, softer this time. "Maybe I'm not the only one who needs tempering now."
Talia met her eyes then, and for the first time since the temple, there was no mask—no pretense, no guarded smile. Just two people who'd been burned in different ways, each carrying what the other had lost.
"Then we temper each other," Talia said finally. "You pull me back when I charge in headfirst. And I'll remind you when you've run too far ahead."
The Diviner's gaze lingered on her, something unreadable flickering in the silver of her eyes. Then she smiled—a real one this time, small but alive.
"Deal."
The wind shifted, scattering the fire's sparks into the air between them. For a heartbeat, they glowed like tiny stars—fleeting, bright, and beautifully fragile. The Diviner reached out, letting one drift across her palm.
"Funny," she murmured. "Without fear, the world feels so much bigger."
"That's because it is," Talia said. "You're finally standing in it without armor."
"That's dangerous, Wildfire."
"So are you," Talia said softly.
The Diviner's grin widened, eyes glinting. "Then I suppose we deserve each other's company."
And as the fire burned low and the desert wind whispered across the dunes, Talia realized that for the first time since they'd met, the silence between them wasn't built on tension or restraint. It was trust—raw, uncertain, and utterly new.
The desert night was colder than Talia expected. She tugged her cloak tighter, but the chill still seeped through, gnawing past the bruises and fatigue. The little fire they'd coaxed into being sputtered, its light catching on the curve of the Diviner's face. Talia pretended to fuss with her sword again, but her hand stilled when she saw how still the other woman sat. One palm rested flat against the stone ridge, fingers spread as if listening to something in the earth no one else could hear. Her face was turned slightly toward the fire, serene but too pale, exhaustion written in the slope of her shoulders.
"You'll burn holes in me if you keep staring," the Diviner murmured suddenly, her voice like water breaking the silence.
Talia's pulse spiked. "I wasn't—"
"Lies."
The faint smile tugging at the Diviner's lips wasn't sharp this time. It was soft, quiet, and unbearably disarming. Talia bristled out of instinct, but her throat betrayed her.
"…You scared me back there."
The Diviner tilted her head, her blind eyes reflecting firelight.
"When I walked into the fire or when I collapsed?"
"Both. You didn't have to do that for me." Talia swallowed. "You push until you nearly break. Why?"
"Because some things are worth breaking for."
The Diviner's hand shifted slightly in the sand, leaving faint grooves. Her face turned toward Talia, open in a way that made the paladin's breath catch. Even if Talia wanted the old Diviner, she kept on being reminded that something had changed in her.
"I thought you'd understand." The Diviner finally said.
The words landed too close, as though she'd struck the weak point in Talia's armor. Heat bloomed low in her chest, confusion curling with it.
"I do," Talia whispered before she could stop herself.
For a long moment, the only sound was the hiss of the fire and the faint sigh of the desert wind. Talia found herself leaning, just slightly, as if drawn across the space between them. The Diviner's hand, still resting in the sand, shifted again—closer this time. Not quite reaching, not quite daring, but near enough that Talia could feel the awareness of it.
Her breath caught. If she moved her own hand just an inch… The thought alone made her recoil inward. With a sharp scrape of metal, she slid her sword back into its scabbard, the sound loud in the fragile silence.
"Get some rest," she said brusquely, tugging her cloak around her again. Her voice was steadier than her chest felt. "We need to move at dawn."
The Diviner only inclined her head, expression unreadable save for the faintest curve of her lips. She folded her hands into her lap and leaned back against the stone. Though Talia wasn't sure if she was holding back or just very exhausted. Considering the recent events, probably the latter. Talia lay down on the cold sand with her back to the fire, pretending sleep. But her fingers tingled where they'd almost reached, and it took a long time before her breath came steady.
The fire had dwindled to glowing embers by the time Talia stirred again. Sleep never really came, only shallow drifting before the ache in her body or the silence of the desert pulled her awake. She rolled onto her back, staring at the stars smudged by sand haze. A soft shift of cloth made her glance sideways. The Diviner hadn't moved from where she sat, legs folded neatly, her posture oddly regal even in exhaustion. But her head had dipped forward now, strands of hair spilling loose, her breath shallow. Something twisted sharp in Talia's chest. She sat up before she could think better of it.
"Hey." Her voice came low, rougher than she intended.
The Diviner stirred faintly, her chin lifting. "You should sleep."
"You should," Talia countered. "You nearly broke yourself today. Broke your soul."
That brought a flicker of a smile. "And yet… I didn't."
The paladin bristled at the edge of bravado, but the sight of her—the faint tremble in her hands, the fragile line of her mouth—cut through it. Without thinking, Talia reached across the space and caught one of those hands before it could retreat into her lap. The Diviner went very still. Her blind eyes lifted toward her, unerring despite the darkness.
"I don't understand you," Talia admitted, her voice low and raw. "You push yourself to shreds. You drive me mad. And I…" She faltered, anger with herself tangling with something more dangerous. "I can't stop watching you."
The Diviner's lips parted, breath trembling. For a heartbeat she seemed ready to pull away—then her fingers closed gently around Talia's, holding instead of fleeing.
"I never learned what to do with this," she whispered. "With… wanting. With being wanted."
The admission cracked like glass, too delicate to fake. The fire hissed in the silence that followed, painting their joined hands in dim amber. Talia's heart hammered, every instinct screaming to armor herself again—but she couldn't make herself let go. Her thumb brushed against the Diviner's knuckles, barely, before she caught herself and stilled. The Diviner leaned just close enough that Talia could feel the heat of her breath.
"Say it," she murmured.
Talia's throat worked. The words scraped out like a confession dragged into light:
"I don't want to lose you."
The space between them went taut, unbearable, fragile. And this time, neither of them pulled away. Their hands stayed linked, a fragile tether in the silence. Talia's chest rose and fell too quickly, her body still coiled from battle but her mind sharper than it had ever been. She could feel every detail of the Diviner's fingers: the callouses hidden beneath elegance, the faint tremor betraying her exhaustion, the steady warmth that seeped into Talia's palm. Neither of them spoke. The words already given hung between them, dangerous enough. The Diviner tilted her head faintly, listening—not to the desert this time, but to her. The faintest smile softened her lips, not mocking but strangely… knowing.
"You're shaking," she said quietly.
"I'm not." Talia's denial cracked instantly against the truth in her voice.
A soft laugh—tired, unguarded—escaped the Diviner. She didn't press, only let her thumb brush, tentative and light, across the back of Talia's hand. It was such a small gesture, but it knocked the air out of her. Talia forced herself to look away, to stare at the dying fire, at anything but the woman sitting inches from her. She knew if she met those blind eyes again she would drown. For once, the Diviner didn't demand words or push further. She only stayed, present, their hands still locked. The silence stretched, heavy with everything unsaid, until Talia felt it pressing into her ribs like armor too tight. And then the Diviner leaned back, slowly releasing her grip, as though she feared that letting go might shatter something fragile between them. The sudden emptiness in Talia's hand stung. She curled her fingers into her palm, swallowing hard. Neither said goodnight. Neither moved far. But the distance between them felt thinner now, like glass waiting for the first crack.
-Tan'Thalon, beneath the council archives-
The council chamber was vast, being able to hold over a hundred councilors and spectators. But as vast as it was, it was nothing compared to the archives. They held the whole history of Tan'Thalon, of the entire continent of Xaerona. Endless row upon row of documents, towering twice the height of a man. And beneath it all, there laid a sealed chamber. The faint hum of containment wards filled the air. Though they lacked the glow typical for the Lazulli powered magitech. That betrayed it wasn't human technology. On a reinforced table, of which the edges were laced with Lazulli, laid a dissected corpse. One of the enhanced abominations recovered from the tunnels. The faint blueish green hue still glimmered faintly beneath its skin, like dying embers. Shyra Volten stood beside it, revealing the Haitreh's true size. Even though she was on the smaller side for her species and with a lean build, she was still a head taller than the abomination would have been standing up. And that was on her four feet down. Her analytical visor flickered with signs from her language. The same signs that were on the wards. Shyra proved that Haitreh technology and magitech could not only co-exist, but work together. Serenya watched the display from across the room with crossed arms and set jaw.
"It's alive." Shyra said softly.
"It's dead." Was Serenya's flat reply.
"No… it's both."
Shyra gestured with a tool, peeling back a layer of scorched flesh. Beneath it, filaments of the blueish green substance snaked through the muscle, pulsing weakly in rhythm. She became the analyst again.
"The Lazulli isn't…."
"Gleam" Serenya protested.
"What?"
"It's not Lazulli. Not anymore. I'm not calling it that. It is gleam now." Serenya crossed her arms again.
"But it doesn't gleam. It is more glimmering. We should call it Glimmer then."
"Fine.. Glimmer."
"The Glimmer isn't just powering the flesh — it's mimicking a soul pattern. Someone's found a way to bind residual consciousness into the crystal lattice. Crude, but effective enough to move the body. These aren't reanimations… they're transmissions."
"You're saying they're being controlled."
"Not individually. There's no direct tether, no guiding will that I can detect. More like—" She hesitate for a moment "—they're fragments of something greater. The patterns resonate across the Lazulli network beneath the city. Whatever created them is broadcasting through the veins."
That was enough to turn Serenya's expression grim. "Like the veins themselves are the leash."
Shyra nodded. "And the leash is tightening."
She activated her data prism, a mobile wrist mounted form of the human's Lazulli orb. The lack of the blue glow, typical for magitech, betrayed it was a Haitreh design. Their tech was still a step up from magitech. It projected faint blue runes in the air. The readings shimmered like heartbeat waves, all pulsing in eerie synchronization with the corpse's dim glow.
"See these resonances? They're converging on a single locus — the Lower Ring's eastern quarter. If my readings are right… something down there is drawing power. Building a network. A hive." Shyra said low.
"For what purpose?" Serenya wanted to know.
Shyra hesitated, her normally calm demeanour faltered.
"To build an army."
The room went still. The hum of containment wards sounded louder, heavier.
Shyra continued,her voice tight.
"The Lazulli grid under Tan'thalon is vast — it fuels the Arc Wall itself. If someone corrupted those veins, every fallen soldier, every buried body laced with Glimmer could… could be reawakened. Not as people — but as conduits."
Serenya turned cold. "An army that doesn't bleed. Doesn't tire. Doesn't disobey."
"An army that serves Ba'ham." Was Shyra's quiet reply.
Serenya turned away, her reflection in the table distorted by faint light. When she spoke, it was low, the words edged with iron.
"I've seen what necromancers can do in the borderlands. They steal corpses and call it heresy. This… this is worse. This is systematic."
Shyra cleaned her instruments, glancing up at Serenya.
"I ran a cross-reference on the sigils carved into their spines. They're old — pre-Cataclysm, linked to the Ba'himic heresies. One name kept appearing in fragments."
"A name?"
"'The Architect Below.' It's not a title I've heard in the arcane archives. But if I had to guess…" She trailed off "It's not just an illusionist. It's someone with a mind for construction. An engineer of death."
Serenya's eyes narrowed. The title landed like a stone. Then she spoke, more to herself.
"An architect who builds from the bones of the fallen. A flesh architect of the dead."
A brief silence stretched. Shyra deactivated her instruments; the corpse finally dimmed to darkness. When she spoke, it was soft.
"If they complete whatever they're building, the Arc Wall won't defend us. It'll feed them. The entire city will rise… as theirs."
Serenya took a long time to answer.
"Then we'll find the Architect. Before the foundations rot."
She turned to leave, her hand resting on the pommel of her sword. As she stepped into the corridor, the Glimmer veins on the corpse flickered once more – not fading this time, but pulsing steadily, almost as if responding to something deeper in the earth awakening.
-The Desert, unknown-
Dawn came shrouded in pale dust and silence. The storm had gutted half the ridge, reshaping the desert around them into jagged slopes and sinkholes. Their path back wasn't just cut off—it was treacherous.
"We'll have to climb," the Diviner said, her palm pressed flat to the stone as if reading it. "The sand's unstable anywhere else."
Talia frowned at the jagged wall of rock before them. "That? With you half-dead on your feet?"
A faint smirk tugged at the Diviner's mouth. "I thought you swore to never underestimate me again after all we've been through by now."
Talia's retort died as she saw the way her legs trembled when she stood. Pride alone was holding her upright. Without a word, Talia stepped closer, planting her shield against the rock to test handholds.
"Then you're climbing with me."
The ascent was brutal. Twice the sand slid beneath their boots, forcing them to cling to one another to keep from falling. Each time Talia's hands caught the Diviner's waist or arm, she felt the sharp intake of breath, the unspoken charge that sparked between them. Each time, the Diviner leaned just close enough that Talia's heart tripped over itself. Halfway up, the ledge gave way under the Diviner's foot. She pitched backward—
—and Talia caught her, shield braced against the rock. For one breathless instant the Diviner was pressed flush against her, their faces only inches apart, lips so close that Talia could feel the other woman's breath against hers. Neither moved. Neither dared. The cliff held them hostage in that stolen moment. The Diviner's voice came soft, unsteady, almost swallowed by the wind.
"If I fall… will you always catch me?"
Talia's throat tightened. "Don't be ridiculous."
But her arms refused to let go. They climbed the rest of the way in silence, every brush of contact electric, every stolen glance sharper than a blade. At the summit they collapsed together, dusted in sand and sweat, the distance between them narrower than ever—yet still unbroken. For now.
The ridge had been cruel, but the summit was worse: nothing but broken stone, sand-strewn sky, and silence. Their campfire was a pitiful crackle in the hollow of a shattered boulder, throwing more shadows than light. Talia sat with her back to the rock, her shield within reach but her gaze unfocused, caught somewhere between exhaustion and thoughts she refused to name. Across the fire, the Diviner sat cross-legged, one hand pressed to the stone as always, head tilted as though listening to some voice only she could hear. For once, she looked… tired. Not just weary from the storm, but fragile, the edges of her composure cracked. Talia's chest tightened. The image of the Diviner half-collapsing in the storm, pouring everything into shielding her, refused to fade. The image of her taking the fire for her and risking her every being. Her despite all of the above preventing an entire temple from sinking.
"You shouldn't have pushed yourself that far," she muttered, sharper than she meant.
The Diviner's lips curved faintly, though her eyes—sightless, and yet piercing—remained lowered.
"And let you be swallowed whole? Hardly an option."
"Still." Talia shifted, arms folded, trying to keep the heat in her face from showing. "You could have died."
Silence stretched, broken only by the fire's hiss. Then—so softly it startled her—the Diviner asked:
"Would it matter to you?"
Talia's breath caught. She looked away, jaw tightening, every instinct screaming at her to put her walls back up. But her mouth betrayed her.
"Yes."
The word hung between them, raw, unguarded. When she dared glance back, the Diviner was already leaning forward, her hand reaching across the narrow firelight. Her fingers brushed Talia's, tentative, almost asking permission. Talia froze. She remembered the fear the Diviner had given up. Her instinct was to pull away, to armor herself. Instead, against all reason, she let her hand turn—let their palms meet. The warmth was startling. Fragile. Real.
The Diviner's voice was barely a whisper: "Then maybe I wasn't wrong to trust you."
That broke something in her. Before she could second-guess herself, Talia shifted closer, firelight flickering across their faces. For a heartbeat, they hovered in the fragile space between decision and regret—then the last restraint shattered.
Their lips met.
It was not desperate, nor perfect—it was raw, clumsy, a collision of walls breaking. But in the quiet aftermath of survival, with sand still clinging to their skin and the fire low, it was enough to seal the threshold neither could deny anymore. When they finally broke apart, silence rushed in again. Talia's heart thundered, her voice catching as she forced a smirk.
"You're impossible."
The Diviner's answering smile was soft, disarming. "And yet, you didn't look away."