The Prisoner in the Pulse
The Spire-core’s light dimmed, its eerie glow receding like a dying ember. In the encroaching darkness, Grandfather Alaric’s emaciated form became visible, a frail specter of the legend he once was. His body hung suspended in a cage of writhing roots, their sinewy tendrils pulsating with unnatural life. The scent of damp earth and something older—something rotten—clung to the air.
His eyes—once sharp as Helena’s blade—were now milky voids, empty and endless. Yet even in his frailty, there was power coiled within him, a presence that spoke of time’s cruel hand and the weight of sacrifice.
“L…Liam?” Alaric’s voice was a dry rasp, brittle as autumn leaves crushed beneath an iron heel. “You…shouldn’t…be here.”
Seraphina collapsed beside him, her breath ragged. Her merged Marks pulsed angrily against her collarbone, veins spiderwebbing black across her skin. She winced, hands trembling as she reached toward Alaric’s prison. “The Spire’s heart—it’s feeding on him.”
Adrian froze mid-step, his Spire-fire flickering uncertainly in his palm. His breath caught, the weight of generations pressing into his chest. “Father?” The word barely escaped him, a whisper lost in the chasm of disbelief. “You… you died in the Purge Wars—”
Alaric’s laughter was a dry, fractured thing, more sigh than sound. “Died? No.” His fingers twitched against the pulsing bark of his prison. “I became the lock… and the key.”
Cassian’s Crucible
A war cry split the cavern’s thick, oppressive air. Outside, Cassian’s voice rose, raw with fury. His Inquisition zealots surged forward, their crimson-clad forms carving through the Tree’s defenders like fire through parchment. Elven scouts fell beneath their onslaught, their silvered blades glancing uselessly off sanctified armor.
“Finish the ritual!” Sylphine shouted, her voice edged with panic. Her hands trembled as she carved ancient elven runes into Amara’s pale skin, each symbol glowing faintly before sinking beneath the surface. “I can’t hold the Tree’s hunger much longer!”
Liam gripped Seraphina’s shoulders, shaking her. “How do we separate the Marks?”
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“You don’t,” Alaric wheezed from within his cage. His voice carried the weight of too many secrets, too many regrets. “The Spire wants them merged. It’s how it breeds new vessels.”
Elara’s daggers found their mark, pinning a zealot to the cavern wall. Blood dripped in sluggish rivulets down the stone. “Then we kill the damn Tree.”
“And me with it,” Alaric whispered. His fingers curled into a fist, as if grasping something unseen. “The Spire’s heart is my prison… and my tether.”
The First Vallis’ Gambit
Liam staggered back as memories not his own slammed into him. Visions flooded his mind—Alaric’s final stand centuries ago, the Purge Wars’ blood-soaked battlefields. The screams of the dying. The sky black with smoke. The first Vallis patriarch had stood on those crimson fields, blade in hand, knowing the war could not be won.
He had made a choice.
Severing his soul, binding half to the Spire, shackling its rage within himself.
Liam gritted his teeth, bile rising in his throat. “You’re not a hero.” His voice was venom. “You’re a coward who damned us all.”
Alaric’s sightless gaze sharpened, a momentary glint of something defiant. “And you’re a fool… like I was. The Spire’s voice is sweetest… when it wears a loved one’s face.”
Seraphina gasped, her Mark flaring. Ice cracked along her skin, her magic fracturing at the edges. “It’s using me as a conduit. I can feel it… learning.”
The Shattered Ritual
Sylphine’s chant reached a fever pitch, her body trembling with the strain. Amara’s cocoon pulsed with golden light, her Mark peeling away from her skin—
Only to snap back in a violent jolt as Cassian’s Spire-tainted axe crashed into the ritual circle.
The explosion sent them all reeling.
“Enough theatrics!” Cassian roared, stepping through the smoke. His body had swollen grotesquely, veins pulsing black with Spire-mana. His armor barely contained the bulging mass of flesh, his fingers now claws. His eyes, once human, gleamed with the eerie violet glow of the Spire’s corruption.
“The Vallis line ends here!”
Adrian moved faster than thought, a surge of Spire-fire consuming his body. He collided with Cassian, flame against shadow. “You end here.”
The cavern ignited.
Roots combusted. Stone melted.
Liam crawled toward Amara, his ears ringing, Seraphina’s weakening grip on his ankle. Her breath was ragged, her strength fading. “Don’t… let it… take you…”
The Veil Lifts
Sylphine’s final rune flickered, then failed. The Weeping Tree shuddered, its bark splitting open along ancient seams.
Not a prison.
A gate.
Beyond the opening stretched a battlefield lost to time. Ethereal warriors clashed in a spectral echo of the Purge Wars, their cries a cacophony of pain and fury. At the center of the chaos stood a figure—his stance familiar, his eyes alight with Spire-fire.
Liam’s breath caught.
It was him.
A perfect reflection, twisted by the Spire’s hunger, smirking as he stepped forward.
“Hello, brother,” the reflection grinned, blade glinting. “Took you long enough.”