They camped in the high branches of an ancient forest, where light barely pierced the thick fog clinging to the underbrush. The trees groaned as if alive, and the air shimmered with latent Aether.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
Alaric sat by a slow-burning flame, letting the Stone Mark settle into his Aether pathways. His Core had grown denser, more grounded. The flickering, reactive fire had deepened—now it waited like a sleeping volcano, biding its time.
A faint rustle caught his attention. Then—silence.
No animal calls. No wind. Even the fire dimmed.
From the mists ahead, a figure emerged: cloaked in pale violet and ash-grey, a mask covering half their face. Long white hair drifted like smoke, and their footsteps made no sound on the forest floor.
Maeryn rose, hand on her sword. "Mist Corebearer," she whispered.
The figure stopped several feet away.
"You carry two Marks," the stranger said, voice smooth and ageless. "You burn. You anchor. But do you remember?"
Alaric stood slowly. "Who are you?"
The figure lowered their hood. Eyes like still water met his.
"I am Seryn of the Pale Veil. Third-born of Mirelleth, Keeper of Forgotten Threads."
"I've come… to warn you."
🌀 Seryn's Warning
They sat beneath the twisted roots of an old canopy. Seryn spoke in half-memories and layered meanings, as if time didn't flow the same for them.
"The Titans are not dead. Nor asleep," Seryn said. "They are bound. Not by mortals, but by their own choice. To shape order, they surrendered freedom."
"And now?" Alaric asked.
"Their bindings fray. Each Mark you awaken is a key. And keys open doors not meant to swing wide."
Maeryn frowned. "Are you saying the Crucibles are a trap?"
"No," Seryn said. "They are a crucible. The world burns or is reforged. But either way, something melts."
They turned to Alaric.
"You are a Convergence. Flame and Stone. Two Aspects that should not coexist—yet they do. That has not happened since the Fall of the Seventh Titan."
Alaric's breath caught. "Seventh? I thought there were six."
Seryn's gaze sharpened. "There were seven. Myreneth. The Balance-Keeper. The one who vanished. The one who was betrayed."
🌫 The Fog Beckons
Before Alaric could press further, a tremor ran through the forest. The mist thickened unnaturally fast.
Seryn stood. "They've followed me. The Mistbound. Echoes of Mirelleth's grief. They are drawn to broken memories—especially yours."
A haunting moan rippled through the trees.
Shapes began to form in the fog—figures with hollow faces and dripping eyes, formed of mist and regret. One whispered Alaric's name in his father's voice.
Maeryn drew her blade. "We fight."
"No," Seryn said. "We remember."
They raised their hand, and the mists around them slowed, rewound—revealing glimpses of Alaric's past: his childhood home, his first spark, the moment he chose to fight.
Alaric stepped forward, heart steady.
"I remember who I am. And I am not yours."
His Core blazed. The Mark of Flame and Stone shimmered, stabilizing the world around him. The echoes hissed—and faded.
Silence returned.
Seryn lowered their hand. "Good. You resist not just pain, but illusion. You are ready for the third Crucible."
❖ The Path Forward
That night, Seryn handed Alaric a parchment made of translucent skin. It pulsed faintly with blue glyphs.
"The Crucible of Mist lies within the city of Cindralis, sunken long ago. But beware—it remembers its death. Not all relics are eager to be found."
Maeryn nodded grimly. "And what of you?"
Seryn smiled faintly. "I walk between what is and what was. You'll see me again... when you forget me."
Then, like smoke on the wind, Seryn vanished into the night.