Beyond the path of stillness lay the Shrine of the Hollow Oracle, a sanctum older than fate. Floating islands of shattered obsidian hung above a sea of glowing memory. At the center, a pillar of time-worn bone and gold stood, wrapped in eternal chains of regret.
Upon it sat the Oracle—neither living nor dead, neither god nor spirit. It was a being of unraveling threads, its form fractal and shifting, eyes hollow voids burning with wisdom.
"You return," it said, its voice existing across ten planes at once.
Zeirion nodded. "You see all paths. Tell me what stirs."
The Oracle lifted a hand of ash.
"They rise—the Awakened Legions of the Fallen Crown. The Sleepers from the Azure Graves stir. And in the North, the Stormborn Sect prepares their harbinger."
Aralya stepped forward. "The harmony has shattered."
"The harmony was never real," the Oracle answered. "Only silence. And silence only reigns when the sovereign is absent."
Zeirion raised a hand.
From his palm surged a breath of presence—his mark—reclaiming ancient oaths embedded in the shrine. The Oracle bowed its form, and all the lights dimmed.
"Then let the realms know," he said, "the sovereign has returned."