The man’s lips cracked into a faint, broken smile.

  “Hello… brother.”

  Alistair’s gaze dropped to the hilt of his Divinium dagger—buried deep in the man’s chest.

  And in that instant, he understood.

  This was the one.

  The hand behind the ruin of that day.

  “Why?” Alistair asked, voice trembling, eyes fixed on the wound.

  The dying man drew a ragged breath. “Because I was… jealous. I was meant to be the Protector. I was meant to bear the light of the gods into a new age. But then you were born. And the goddess chose… you.”

  He coughed, blood flecking his lips.

  “The Varan Vaelis awakened stronger in your blood. You were braver. Truer. The goddess favored you—while I was left behind. Berenar the Discarded, they called me. Cast aside. Forgotten. While you rose to glory.”

  Alistair’s eyes darkened. “So all of this—the ruin, the death—was for spite? For not being chosen?”

  Berenar shook his head weakly. “No. I never sought this.”

  His hand trembled toward the broken world around them. “I was promised mastery over the Crystal. My birthright restored. I was told that what had been taken would be returned to me. I did not know it would end… like this.”

  Alistair lowered his gaze. “The Betrayer ensnares with honeyed lies. You were not the first to fall to his voice.”

  “No,” Berenar whispered. “I am no victim. I chose my path, every step. And I… accept the judgment that must follow. Whatever the gods decree, I will face it.”

  Blood seeped steadily from the wound.

  His voice waned.

  Pale light glimmered faintly in his fading eyes.

  “I only wished to say… I’m sorry. Truly. I see now why the goddess chose you, and not me. You have more courage, more heart, than I could ever claim. I was blinded by envy and pride. But now… I see. You were always… more worthy.”

  Alistair wept, cradling his brother’s head in his hands.

  “In a man’s final hour,” he said softly, “his soul stands unveiled. You have shown humility—redeeming your spirit with this last act of repentance. It will weigh in your favor when you stand before the gods, in the life beyond.”

  He touched his brother’s brow.

  “Go now to the Court of the Varanir. Stand unafraid. Tell them this: that I, Alistair—Protector of the Realm, chosen of the goddess—forgive you. You were, and always shall be, a true Son of Sophia.”

  Berenar smiled.

  A final breath escaped his lips.

  “Thank you… brother.”

  And then—silence.

  His face stilled, peaceful at last.

  “Rest now,” Alistair whispered, tears tracing paths down his cheeks. “May your soul find peace in the light.”

  So much death.

  So much ruin.

  And all for nothing.

  Lies.

  Jealousy.

  Betrayal.

  An enemy no blade—no matter how sharp—could ever destroy.

  He retrieved his weapons and tried to rise.

  His legs carried him only a few paces before giving way, and he sank again to the ground.

  His body—battered, broken—could bear no more.

  He reached for the healing light, but the strength to summon it had fled him.

  His life-force, once radiant as a star, now flickered like a dying ember.

  And he knew.

  These were his final moments.

  Drawing one last steady breath, he turned his gaze to the sky—clear now, the infernal clouds scattered—and spoke with quiet resolve:

  “I do not fear death, for I have lived a just life.

  Soon, Father, I shall dine among the chosen in your heavenly halls.

  I know you will receive me with open arms.

  My soul is ready.

  All I ask—humbly—is that you show mercy to my brother.

  He does not deserve the flames of damnation.”

  He lay back against the shattered stone, a faint smile on his lips.

  Though his flesh failed, his spirit was serene.

  He had done what must be done.

  The portal was sealed.

  The world had been saved.

  He thought of his life—his youth, his triumphs, the laughter of his children—and found no regrets.

  He had loved, fought, and triumphed.

  That was enough.

  He closed his eyes, ready.

  But then, a voice—familiar and beloved—broke through the silence.

  “Father!”

  Alistair opened his eyes.

  Through the haze, his youngest son, Berethor, came running to him, tears streaming down his face.

  Behind him followed the surviving members of their loyal house.

  Berethor knelt and lifted his father’s head gently into his arms.

  “Father,” Berethor choked, “I searched everywhere for you. When the catastrophe struck, I rallied our warriors and fought through the streets. There were creatures everywhere, and we became surrounded. All seemed lost…but suddenly, the portal closed. The monsters turned to ash before our eyes, and we were saved! I knew then—you must have done it. I ran here, hoping… Woe to me that I did not come sooner!”

  Alistair lifted a shaking hand and touched his son's lips.

  “Do not grieve, my son,” Alistair said gently. “It is well that you were not by my side. Where I have been… no mortal soul should tread. You would not have survived.”

  He formed a faint smile.

  “But I have lived a long life—one rich with joys and victories. I met your mother, and though fate sought to keep us apart, my will proved stronger. She gave me beautiful children… and I have lived long enough to watch you all grow into full bloom. I have been blessed beyond measure.”

  He paused, the weight of memory flickering in his gaze.

  Then, softly he asked, “Where are your brothers?”

  Berethor looked away, eyes brimming once more. “I… I could not save them, Father. It’s only Mother and I now.”

  Alistair’s heart ached, but he offered a warm, steady smile.

  “Then they will dine with me tonight… in the halls of the gods.”

  “No, Father,” Berethor pleaded. “Our Chirurgeons can mend you. Please—let them try.”

  But again, Alistair silenced him.

  “It is too late, my son. My body is spent. But there is still one last duty I must fulfill.”

  With trembling hands, he drew forth Lightbringer, its golden edge still warm with demon blood, shimmering in the morning light.

  From his finger he slipped the signet of Sophia’s line and pressed it into Berethor’s palm, a silent seal of blood and kinship.

  Then he laid the sword across his son’s hands.

  “This blade was given to our house long ago. It was a gift—to the firstborn Asturians, Protectors of the Light. My father gave it to me, as his father gave it to him, and his before him… all the way back to the day the goddess Sophia entrusted it to the first of our line.”

  He closed Berethor’s hands around the hilt.

  “Now is your time. Wield it with honor. Strike down evil wherever it festers. The world is broken, and you must help rebuild it. Rise from the ashes, like the Phoenix. Restore our greatness. This is your task now. The gods have chosen you, Berethor.”

  Tears rolled freely down Berethor’s cheeks.

  But Alistair smiled.

  “I love you, my son. And I am proud of you—more than you will ever know. Now go. Take the ships. Sail east. Let the sea carry my body away. Mourn me not, for tonight, I join your brothers in the Halls of Helm. We shall dine together with the Varanir, in joy, until the end of time.”

  He kissed his son gently on the forehead, then turned to his wife who was knelt beside him.

  Leaning close, he whispered soft words meant for her alone.

  She nodded, tears streaming silently.

  Then he kissed her one final time.

  And with that, Alistair the Protector, mightiest of the Asturians, breathed his last.

  Mother and son wept over the fallen giant.

  They lingered as long as they could, though the earth now trembled with fury—stone splitting, towers crumbling, and the sea advancing like a hungry beast.

  At last, Berethor knew: time had run out.

  With quiet reverence and steady hands, he took his father’s belt, secure with the Divinium sword and dagger, and claimed the bracers from his arms—sacred heirlooms of their line.

  Then he turned to his mother, lifting her gently to her feet.

  Together, they fled the dying city, as what remained of their people gathered behind them, resolute in their grief.

  They reached the harbor and boarded the great ships.

  As the sails unfurled and caught the wind, Great Asturia—once the jewel of the world—began to slip beneath the waves.

  A deluge poured from the heavens, as if the skies themselves mourned its fall.

  Behind them, stone and memory sank into the deep, lost forever to the sea.

  The vision shifted.

  The great ships reached the shores of a distant land.

  There, upon the white beaches of Ellaria, waited Lord Aenarion.

  The Elf-lord greeted the Asturians with open arms, and in his marble halls they feasted—ancient bonds rekindled in the light of shared kinship.

  Aenarion, ever gracious, blessed their parting and sent them forth with laden carts and swift horses for the long road ahead.

  Berethor led his people across unknown lands—through forest and field, over hills and mountains—until at last, they came upon a place Baronsworth knew well: Luin Athela, The Valley of Light.

  Here, the vision slowed.

  Baronsworth watched, as if standing within the memory, the tale he had heard his father recite so many times: the Battle for Arthoria—the Sunlands.

  The raiders came in droves—wild men hardened by the land.

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  They wore patchwork armor, some no more than roughspun tunics, yet each bore a weapon of death: axes, spears, swords, and heavy shields.

  Confident in their numbers, they charged without fear.

  But the Asturians were ready.

  Though few, they stood in disciplined ranks, clad in gleaming mail, halberds braced in an unbroken wall of iron.

  Their legendary steelbows—massive weapons only the strongest could draw—sang death into the sky.

  Arrow after arrow found its mark.

  When the bandits struck, they shattered—breaking like waves against a cliff.

  Halberds tore through them; steel met flesh with unrelenting precision.

  The raiders faltered.

  Then fled—panicked, scattered, undone.

  With a cry that rang through the valley, Berethor raised Lightbringer toward the heavens.

  His warriors roared in triumph.

  And with solemn pride, he planted the clan’s banner into the earth, claiming the Valley in the name of his people.

  Time surged forward again.

  Baronsworth beheld the birth of Caras Athalor—the Dawnstone: foundations laid, the mighty Sunkeep rising, stone by stone.

  He saw the canals cut, the river turned to encircle the citadel in a moat of shimmering defense.

  He watched as secret tunnels were carved beneath the keep—the very passages he had wandered as a child, never knowing their ancient purpose.

  For years, Berethor labored, guiding the shaping of his people’s new haven.

  He sought not only walls and towers, but a legacy—a shard of lost Asturia reborn.

  And when his work was done, he rested at last, seated in the high-backed chair of the great study within the Sunkeep—the very room where Baronsworth had spent his boyhood under his parents’ care.

  The very room where his father had fallen.

  Centuries passed in the blink of an eye.

  Baronsworth watched the long line of his ancestors, each seated in turn upon the same chair.

  Faces blurred by time drifted past like embers carried on the wind—until, at last, the line ended on a man he knew well.

  A small boy ran into the room.

  The man turned, smiling, and lifted the child into his arms.

  It was his father—Lord Godfrey.

  And Baronsworth realized then: the boy was himself.

  Before the thought could fully form, his perspective shifted—and suddenly, he indeed was the child once more, resting in his father’s embrace.

  He felt it all as if no time had passed: the strength in that embrace, the warmth of the familiar voice, the comforting scent of parchment and cedar on his father’s robes.

  The study around them—the worn wood beneath his feet, the dust-kissed tomes lining the shelves—seemed just as it had been, unchanged.

  It did not feel like memory.

  It felt real.

  He laughed—a bright, unguarded laugh—and Godfrey laughed with him.

  His heart overflowed.

  Tears came, not of grief but of joy too great to contain.

  For a moment, no questions mattered—not whether it was dream, vision, or something else entirely.

  All that mattered was this.

  He was home.

  Then, quietly, the vision shifted again.

  He stood once more as himself—a grown man before his father.

  Godfrey looked just as he remembered, wearing that same warm, patient smile.

  For a long moment, neither spoke.

  Their eyes met, and Baronsworth dared not breathe, fearing the spell might break.

  At last, Godfrey spoke.

  “Hello, my son.”

  Baronsworth trembled. “Father… is it truly you?”

  “My boy. My dear boy. Of course it’s me.”

  “But… how? You’re dead.”

  Godfrey inclined his head gently. “My son, there is no such thing as death. What you call death is only the next step in the eternal cycle. The flesh fades, yes, but we are not the flesh. We are luminous beings, born of the Father. His Light is infinite, and so is His love—as is mine, for you. I have never left you. I have watched over you all these years, proud of the man you’ve become. I was there the day you left our home, and I will be with you, always.”

  Baronsworth lowered his head.

  The words soothed him, but sorrow welled deep.

  “Father… it’s been so hard. You were taken from me far too soon. I wasn’t ready to lose you—or Mother. When I needed you most, you were gone. I’ve had to fight, to survive, alone in this dark world. I’ve seen horror and endured more pain than I ever thought possible. I’ve stood helpless as the people I loved were slaughtered before my eyes. I’ve wandered through every corner of this broken land, and found no comfort anywhere.

  Evil festers. Good men are few. I wake screaming from dreams I cannot bear to remember. I go on because I must, but I am so tired. I feel like a vagabond—drifting from place to place, belonging nowhere. I don’t know my purpose anymore. I don’t know why I keep going.

  Each day I wonder if the sword, or time, will finally end it all. I want to believe. I want to hope. But I am at the end of my strength. Truly, Father… I see no light ahead.”

  Baronsworth could no longer fight the tears streaming down his cheeks.

  The mighty Magnus—terror of the battlefield, slayer of champions—ran into his father’s arms like a lost child.

  In that moment, he realized the depth of despair he had buried deep within his soul.

  For years he had hidden it, even from himself, wearing strength as armor.

  But now, the armor cracked.

  And beneath it, he was only a son—grieving, hurting, and finally, no longer alone

  Godfrey held him close, and with the calm of one who had seen much, spoke gently.

  “My son. You give yourself too little credit. You have known pain and walked through darkness, and yet… you have not fallen. Even now, you strive toward the good, though the shadows tug upon your very soul. That alone is worthy of honor.

  I understand your sorrow. My own father was taken before his time. His loss broke me—but it also remade me. From grief, I forged resolve. From pain, I drew purpose. And because of that, by the time you were born, our lands were free of the Orc scourge. His death was not the end of hope—it was its beginning.

  Do not despair, my son. All things move according to the divine will, each soul playing its part in the great harmony sung by the stars. You are not alone. The forces of good rise even in the deepest night, and they will guide you, as they always have. You may not see the path clearly—but you are on it. And when the time comes, you will find that you are strong indeed.”

  Baronsworth felt something within him loosen.

  He had needed this—needed it more than he had ever admitted.

  The words he had carried in silence for so long were at last spoken, and for the first time in many years, part of the weight eased.

  Yet the ache of loss remained.

  “I miss you, Father,” he whispered. “I know your words are true… but still—I do not know how to go on without you.”

  Godfrey smiled, radiant and full of peace.

  “My son. From the day you were born, it was my purpose to raise you—to shield you from the darkness until you were ready to stand against it. That time came sooner than I wished, but I did what I could. I passed on our ways, our legacy, and you… you have grown into a warrior beyond anything I could have dreamed. I am proud of you.

  My time in the world has ended, but yours is only beginning. And though evil spreads like a plague, it has overlooked something vital: that I left behind a son greater than any this house has ever known. The divine spark burns within you—the Eternal Flame. You were born beneath an auspicious sign, marked by fate and favored by the gods. You have the strength to restore balance, to drive back the tide of darkness.

  The Creator does not intend for this world, His masterpiece, to sink into chaos. You are His answer—His sword—and I have known this truth since the first moment I held you in my arms.”

  Godfrey clasped Baronsworth’s face between his hands, staring deeply into his eyes.

  “Remember, my son: you are not alone. The forces of good—seen and unseen, stand with you. You already possess all that you need to prevail. But to fulfill your destiny…”

  He touched a finger to Baronsworth’s brow.

  “You must remember who you are!”

  The vision shifted again.

  Baronsworth stood in the hidden chamber beneath the Sunkeep—his old training ground.

  The air was heavy with memory and promise.

  From the edges of the dark, figures began to emerge: warriors clad in burnished armor, their breastplates etched with the sacred engravings of Asturia.

  Each bore a different countenance, yet all shared the same proud, unyielding grace.

  They were otherworldly—and familiar.

  His ancestors.

  They encircled him, tall and radiant, forming a living ring of light and remembrance.

  In solemn reverence, they bowed their heads.

  Then, as one, they raised their swords in both hands.

  From above, shafts of gold pierced the gloom, flowing down into their blades, then into their forms—until each burned with the brilliance of the sun.

  In an instant, the chamber dissolved.

  Baronsworth stood now at the heart of the Great Temple of Asturia.

  Pillars of white stone soared upward like trees of creation, and at the center towered the Crystal, blazing with celestial fire.

  The light that had gathered in his ancestors rose together in a single column of radiance and descended upon him.

  The warmth coursed through him—divine, immense, yet gentle.

  It filled every part of him, body and spirit alike.

  And from every direction, a single cry resounded, echoing through the sacred vaults in a chorus of immortal voices:

  “Remember who you are!”

  The light waned.

  Baronsworth stood again—alone—watching as another vision began to unfold.

  Alistair the Protector—his forebear, his blood—walked solemnly down the great aisle of the Temple.

  On either side, priests in white and gold chanted softly, their voices weaving a single, reverent tone.

  They swayed like reeds in a sacred wind as the Great Crystal pulsed above, casting its steady glow upon all present.

  The High Priest stepped forward.

  His robes were more elaborate than the rest—embroidered with ancient runes of light.

  “Are you ready to ascend, my son?” he asked.

  “I am,” said Alistair, kneeling.

  “Then let us begin.”

  A golden chalice was brought forth and placed into the High Priest’s hands.

  Whispering a prayer older than the stones around them, he lifted the cup high, then gently poured the radiant liquid between Alistair’s lips.

  The Protector closed his eyes and sank into stillness.

  The chanting deepened.

  The Crystal’s pulse quickened.

  Light coursed through the temple like living fire.

  The air trembled with power; golden arcs leapt from the Crystal’s core, dancing through the air in radiant spirals.

  Still, Alistair remained unmoving, letting the divine current pass through him, filling him utterly.

  Gradually, his body began to sway with the rhythm of the priests, not by will, but in harmony with the rising tide of light.

  The temple itself seemed to breathe with them—its stones alive, its echoes radiant.

  Then, from among the robed figures, another presence emerged.

  A Knight.

  He was clad in full ceremonial armor, the metal engraved with sigils that shimmered like morning upon the sea.

  His head was bare—long gray hair falling to his shoulders, his face marked by years of battle and grace.

  He stepped into the circle and faced Alistair, standing where the light converged most fiercely.

  They regarded one another—guardian and heir—at the heart of the living fire.

  The old Knight spoke.

  “Are you ready, Alistair, to become the Protector of this realm?”

  “I am.”

  “Do you swear to uphold truth, virtue, justice, honor, wisdom, and love?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you vow to defend this realm and its people, great and small, against all evil?”

  “I do.”

  The Knight’s voice deepened, solemn as prophecy.

  “Then know this: your old self shall pass away, and a new self be born. You shall be remade in light—under the guardianship of the gods. You will now enter communion with the Great Crystal, the gift of our Father Creator, and with the Varanir—the covenant of the Beings of Light.”

  He drew forth a sword—Lightbringer—and held it out.

  “Rise, and receive the gift the gods bestow.”

  Alistair rose and took the sacred blade.

  The priests stepped aside, parting the way to the Crystal.

  Alistair advanced, raising Lightbringer high.

  A column of pure radiance struck the blade, coursing through it into his body.

  He burned with that light—bright and blinding, yet warm and healing.

  It filled him completely, cleansing him of all pain, all doubt and fear, until only purpose remained.

  When the brilliance subsided, Alistair stood transformed.

  His eyes shone with the fire of the Crystal.

  Lightbringer pulsed like a heart of living gold in his hand.

  The High Priest spoke once more:

  “The old you has died. The new you is born. You are in communion with the Great Crystal—and through it, with the Beings of Light. Rise now, and take your place as Protector of this realm.”

  The temple faded away.

  Only Alistair remained—shining, eternal.

  He turned and met Baronsworth’s gaze.

  His voice rang clear, suffused with strength and compassion.

  “Become who you were meant to be.”

  He raised Lightbringer to the heavens—

  and from the shadows, the figures emerged once more.

  The radiant ancestors.

  Among them stood Godfrey, Baronsworth’s father—his armor gleaming, his presence mighty.

  He stepped forward, warmth in his eyes.

  “I am so proud of you, my son. You have grown strong in my absence—stronger than I ever imagined. I wish it could have been otherwise. I wish we had more time… that I could have taught you more—of our lineage, our past, our world.”

  He stepped closer.

  “But evil struck too soon, hoping to find us unprepared—to erase us from the earth. They failed. For we do not die. Even though I no longer walk beside you in flesh, I am with you still—in your heart, in your blood. I am more now than I ever was when I walked the world.”

  He gestured to those who stood around them—

  “All your ancestors, the Highborn Sons of Sophia—we are with you. Every step of the way.”

  His voice grew solemn.

  “It has been decreed in the heavens: the age of darkness nears its end. The One True Light will return. The world stands upon the threshold of a new Golden Age. But Bhaal, the Lord of Shadow, and its servants will not yield easily. They will fight with all they possess to keep the Light from rising.”

  His gaze deepened.

  “Both Light and Dark now place their pieces upon the board, preparing for the Great War of our age. And you, my son… you stand at its heart. The choices you make will shape the fate of this world.”

  Godfrey placed a hand over his heart.

  “You are of a sacred bloodline—the chosen line. It is our blood, and our blood alone, that may commune with the Great Crystal. That is why I gave everything that night—to ensure your survival.”

  His voice took on a quiet reverence.

  “Long ago, our house was appointed guardians of the Great Crystal. By divine decree, our lineage was bound to its light. Through it, each Protector was endowed with sacred power—strength to stand against the darkness, and to drive it back. Though the Crystal now lies shattered and silent, the gods have granted you, my son, the gift to awaken what has long slept.”

  He looked at Baronsworth, his gaze filled with purpose.

  Your path will not be easy. The fragments of the Crystal are scattered across Mytharia. You must find them and commune with each, if you are to prevail. But fear not—you will not walk alone. Lord Aenarion will guide you. He is a true Light in this shadowed world, a friend to all who resist the darkness. Others too will rise to aid you, each in their appointed time.

  When the Crystal is restored, it will awaken the dormant power within you. It will draw you fully into communion with the forces of Light and kindle the Eternal Flame that lies buried in your soul. The process has already begun—when you partook of the sacred Nectar of the Great Tree. That divine gift has stirred something deep within you. You may already feel it: clearer thought, stronger instinct, a closer bond with your heart’s true voice. Much that no longer serves you has already been cleansed away.”

  His tone softened, touched with wonder.

  “There are many such sacred creations in this world—gifts of the gods, hidden in secret places. Used with wisdom, they can open the veil between this realm and the divine. Already your inner light begins to shine through—like a precious jewel, long buried, now unearthed. Others have seen it. That is why you inspire such loyalty, such love, in those who walk beside you. And when you find the first fragment of the Crystal, that light will grow tenfold.

  Piece by piece, the old self will fall away. All that is false will be stripped from you. And then, when the time is right, you will remember who you truly are.”

  Godfrey laughed—a deep, hearty sound that warmed Baronsworth’s heart like a blazing hearth.

  “I almost pity your enemies, my son. You were already formidable before this awakening. Soon, you will lead the hosts of the realm—a great Alliance of Light—as countless souls gather beneath one banner to face the coming darkness.”

  He leaned forward, his tender eyes alight with conviction.

  “But before that… you must do what your heart yearns for most. The Light has decreed that the time has come to reclaim our ancestral home: Cael Athala, the Sunkeep. It is a place of lords, of light and laughter, of beauty and joy, of abundance and grace. Long did it stand as a bulwark against the night—impregnable, radiant, a beacon that lit the path through the shadows. It is your destiny to make it so once more.

  You carry the favor of the Divine, my son. The path home will soon reveal itself. But first, you must seek out the first Crystal fragment and renew the ancient covenant between our kind and the Varanir. When that bond is restored, your path will grow clear. We will be with you, Baronsworth—all your ancestors, watching, guiding, protecting, at every step.”

  Godfrey stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with something eternal.

  “There is one final gift we offer you—a boon, from all of us, to you.

  Clear your mind.

  Breathe deeply.”

  With those final words, Godfrey raised both hands skyward.

  Brilliance poured into them from the heavens above—cascading, divine.

  It gathered into a sphere between his palms, a radiant orb unlike anything Baronsworth had ever seen.

  It shimmered with a thousand hues, ever-shifting—gold, silver, sapphire, rose—a living kaleidoscope of sacred fire.

  Godfrey stepped forward and, with reverence and tenderness, placed his hands upon his son.

  The moment their contact was made, the power surged.

  Energy coursed through Baronsworth’s body—warmth unlike anything he had ever known.

  It wrapped around him like a mantle of love, vast and all-encompassing.

  He felt an overwhelming peace, the joy of a child in his father’s arms on a winter’s night—safe, held, in a world that asked nothing of him.

  He laughed.

  Tears sprang unbidden from his eyes, and still, he laughed—freely, helplessly, joyfully.

  The radiance within him danced and quickened, awakening every cell until he felt alive, renewed, reborn.

  He and his father laughed together for a long, glorious moment—bound in love that defied time.

  Then Godfrey spoke again, his voice softer now, filled with solemn grace.

  “This gift will cleanse you of doubt and heal the wound of my passing. Let it bring peace to your heart, that you may step forward into your future—with courage, and with clarity.

  Go now, my son.

  Time is short, and much awaits.

  Find the first fragment of the Crystal. Commune with it. Restore the ancient covenant.

  And your path shall unfold before you, like the rising sun.”

  Baronsworth opened his mouth to respond—but before he could speak, the world around him dissolved into brilliance.

  From behind, a great vortex opened—its force immense and inescapable.

  It pulled him in.

  For a moment, there was only blackness.

  Then his eyes fluttered open.

  The world slowly returned into focus.

  He was back—within the sarcophagus, at the heart of the Great Tree.

  seek the scattered fragments of the Crystal, restore the covenant, and reclaim the Sunkeep when the hour is ripe. The ancestors have spoken — remember who you are.

  From here, the path narrows: will Baronsworth rise to his destiny… or falter beneath the weight of it? ?????

  Next: The rite ends, the counsel begins, and a mighty new ally joins the fray.

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