Morning did not arrive the way it used to.
There was light, yes, but it came thin and strained, leaking through the clouds like something ashamed of being seen. The sun rose without warmth, a pale disc blurred by drifting ash. Lareth smoldered beneath it, a wounded city breathing smoke instead of air.
Aren stood on the broken steps of the Conclave Tower and watched survivors move through the ruins. They walked slowly, as if speed itself had become dangerous. Some carried the injured. Others carried nothing at all, hands empty, eyes hollow. A few simply stood and stared at places where buildings used to be, as though if they looked long enough, stone might remember how to return.
Behind him, the tower groaned.
It was a deep, exhausted sound—old magic settling into a new and unfamiliar shape. Whatever had shattered beneath it had not fully vanished. Aren could feel that much in his bones.
"The lower halls are sealed," the High Arbiter said. Her name was Sereth Valen, though most people had only ever called her Voice of the Conclave. Now her voice was barely louder than the wind. "Not by wards. By absence. There is… nothing holding them open."
Kael leaned against a cracked pillar nearby, his arm bound with torn cloth. His eyes were fixed on the tower doors, jaw tight.
"Nothing?" he echoed. "You mean the Anchor is gone."
Sereth closed her eyes. For a moment, she looked very old. "I mean it is unmoored."
Aren turned to face her fully. "Explain."
She met his gaze, and there was no evasion in her eyes. Only regret.
"The Anchor was never a single thing," she said. "It was a balance. A binding agreement between magic and those who wielded it. We believed it eternal because we believed ourselves wise."
Kael laughed, short and bitter. "You broke the spine of the world because you believed."
Sereth flinched. "We acted because the world was already bending."
Aren held up a hand before Kael could speak again. "Start from the beginning."
She hesitated, then nodded.
"For years," Sereth said, "the flow of magic has been changing. Small inconsistencies at first—spells requiring more effort, ley lines drifting, ancient enchantments decaying faster than expected. We told the public it was natural aging."
"And it wasn't," Aren said.
"No. Magic was pressing against its limits. The Anchor was never meant to restrain forever. It was meant to guide. But kingdoms grew. Populations expanded. Every city demanded protection, transport, healing, comfort. Magic was pulled thinner and thinner, like thread stretched too far."
Kael pushed himself upright. "So you decided to tighten the knot."
Sereth nodded once. "We attempted a reinforcement ritual. Temporary. Or so we believed."
Aren's expression hardened. "You experimented on the world."
"We tried to save it."
The words fell flat between them.
From the plaza below came a cry of pain. Aren glanced down to see a young woman convulsing as a healer hovered helplessly over her. Blue light flickered around the healer's hands, unstable, warping. The healer recoiled in fear and dropped her hands, backing away.
The woman's body stilled.
No wound. No blood. Just silence.
Kael turned away, swallowing hard.
"This isn't just failure," Kael said quietly. "Magic is hostile now. It's reacting."
"Yes," Sereth said. "It is no longer bound by obedience."
Aren exhaled slowly. "Then we don't treat it like a tool anymore."
Both of them looked at him.
"We treat it like weather," Aren continued. "Unpredictable. Dangerous. And survivable if you respect it."
Sereth studied him for a long moment. "You've seen something like this before."
"Not at this scale."
"But enough to know."
Aren did not answer. He rarely spoke of the borderlands, of the dead zones where magic had thinned and twisted long before the Conclave noticed. Places the world preferred to forget.
A horn sounded from the eastern gate—short, urgent blasts.
A guard came running, breath ragged. "Creatures," he said. "Changed ones. They're moving together now."
"How many?" Aren asked.
"Too many."
Aren reached for his sword. "Where?"
"Old market district."
Sereth straightened, resolve settling over her features. "I will gather what mages remain."
Kael looked at her sharply. "You said magic won't obey."
She lifted her cracked staff. "Then we learn to listen instead of command."
Aren didn't like the sound of that, but there was no time to argue.
They moved quickly through the streets, stepping over rubble and shattered enchantments that buzzed faintly underfoot. The air tasted wrong—sharp, metallic, as if the city itself were bleeding.
The Changed came into view near the market square.
They were not attacking blindly.
They were waiting.
At least twelve of them stood in a loose circle around the fountain, bodies warped by magic that pulsed and crawled beneath their skin. Some had too many limbs. Others too few. One hovered inches above the ground, feet dissolving into light.
At the center of the circle was a man on his knees.
Aren recognized him immediately.
"Captain Horen," he said.
The captain's armor was cracked, his sword lying useless on the stones. His hands were raised, palms open, trembling.
"They speak," Horen said hoarsely when he saw Aren. "They say they remember being bound."
One of the Changed stepped forward. Its voice came out layered, familiar and foreign all at once.
"We were shaped," it said. "Taught restraint. Punished for excess. But the world drank deeply and called it balance."
Kael whispered, "They're aware."
Sereth's breath caught. "That shouldn't be possible."
Aren stepped forward, sword lowered but ready. "Let him go."
The creature tilted its head. "Why?"
"Because he's done nothing to you."
A ripple passed through the group—laughter, anger, grief folding into one another.
"Nothing?" another voice said. "He wielded us. He ordered us to burn fields and fortify walls and silence storms."
Aren tightened his grip. "He didn't create the system."
"No," the creature agreed. "But he served it."
The Changed closed ranks.
Aren moved.
He charged without waiting, because hesitation was death. His sword flashed, cutting through unstable forms, steel disrupting magic long enough to wound. Kael followed, not casting spells, but using his staff like a blunt weapon, striking joints, sweeping legs.
Sereth raised her staff—not in command, but in offering. Her voice rang out, steady and raw.
"Stop," she said. "Hear me."
Magic surged.
Not outward—but inward.
The Changed froze, not bound, but uncertain. Their forms flickered.
"You are not wrong," Sereth said. "We failed you. We failed the world. But this path ends in nothing. No justice. No healing."
One of the Changed screamed, sound tearing the air. Another collapsed, its form unraveling into harmless light.
Captain Horen scrambled back as the circle broke.
Aren struck the last creature down as it lunged, blade piercing the core of its unstable magic. It dissolved with a sigh, like relief.
Silence followed.
The market square was ruined—stalls overturned, enchantments flickering uselessly—but it still stood.
Horen fell to his hands and knees, sobbing.
Kael leaned on his staff, shaking.
Sereth lowered hers, tears streaking her face.
"This is only the beginning," she said. "They will come again. Smarter. Angrier."
Aren nodded. "Then we prepare."
"For what?" Kael asked. "There's no rulebook for this."
Aren looked out over the city, over the people trying to rebuild meaning from rubble.
"For a world where magic no longer serves," he said. "And where survival depends on what we choose to become without it."
In the distance, beyond the city walls, the land shuddered.
Something vast had noticed the breaking.
And it was waking up.