The town of Grellwatch lay quiet under a curtain of grey clouds, its once-bustling harbor stilled by a tension no wind could break. The sea lapped at the stone piers in eerie rhythm, as if waiting. Alaric stood at the edge of the dockyard, cloak billowing behind him, the tips of his fingers tracing faint lines in the air—aether threads, ready to bind or burn.
Behind him, Lysera adjusted the silver clasp on her bracer, soullight flickering faintly around her. "It's not just a storm," she murmured. "Something's coming with it."
"It always is," Alaric replied quietly. He didn't need Chronoaether to sense it. The storm wasn't natural—it hummed with malice.
A crack of thunder shattered the silence. From the clouds, a figure descended.
Kael Darven.
Cloaked in royal blues and storm-forged silver, he was every bit the tempest he was rumored to be. Lightning danced around his boots as he landed, scattering sparks along the damp cobbles. His long hair whipped in the sea wind, and behind him, soldiers bearing the crest of House Darven marched in disciplined silence.
Alaric's brows knit. "You're early."
"You're late," Kael said, smiling like a blade. "The Voidbinders have already touched these lands. Lord Varen declared martial control. He sent me to clean it up."
"You're not his servant," Alaric said sharply.
Kael's smile faltered.
"No," he said. "But we all bend to something, Alaric. Even you."
Before Alaric could speak again, a tremor shivered through the stone beneath their feet. Lysera stiffened, her gaze darting inland.
From the alleyway beyond the wharf came a woman draped in jet-black armor, pale strands of hair coiling like tendrils down her back. Maeryn.
But she was different. Colder. Something unnatural swam behind her eyes.
The essence of the Titan she'd fused with—a cruel echo of a god called The Hollowed Fang—pulsed in her presence.
"You're all so quick to gather like flies," she said. Her voice was silk and venom. "But this storm isn't yours."
Alaric stepped forward, summoning twin lines of crimson and granite aether into his hands. Fire and stone, ancient and fierce. The storm behind him curled against his back like a loyal beast.
"You've hurt too many," he said. "That ends here."
Maeryn tilted her head. "Still playing hero? The Crucible doesn't care for heroes. Only survivors."
She threw out her hand, and void-tainted chains erupted from her palm, hissing through the air like serpents. Kael stepped forward instantly, raising his glaive. Thunder surged, intercepting the blow midair with a clash that cracked the sky.
Alaric dashed forward—no hesitation. He used his fire core to jet himself sideways, stone core to harden his arm, and lashed Chronoaether to slow Maeryn's second attack.
But she'd learned.
The chains curved, splitting mid-air like a hydra. One snagged Kael's shoulder. Another broke past Alaric's guard and coiled around his ankle. With a wrenching twist, Maeryn yanked him forward.
He tumbled—only for Lysera's soullight to catch him mid-fall, cradling him in a barrier of shining threads.
"Not this time," she whispered, eyes glowing. "You're not falling again."
Maeryn growled and stepped back. She wasn't here for a full confrontation. Not yet.
"I've seen what's coming," she said, gaze locked with Alaric's. "Even if you win today, the Void will swallow your hope. And Lord Varen won't stop it. He wants it."
She released the chains and leapt into the air, vanishing into the storm's belly.
Kael cursed, ripping the black spike from his shoulder. "She's stronger than last time."
"She's not alone," Alaric said. "She's been gathering the remnants of the Voidbinders. And if what she says is true..."
"Varen may be backing them," Lysera finished. Her eyes were distant, aether-soul reaching far, sensing the fraying edges of Grellwatch's fragile peace.
Alaric stared into the clouds, then turned away. He felt it—deep in his core.
The Crucible wasn't over.
It had just begun.