"Who has arrived?" Kale asked.

Ikareia turned back to him. "A relic of a war that should never have been fought, and yet one that never truly ended. Once the finest thread in the tapestry of blades, now the unraveling that consumes it. The blade that severed its own oath, wielding ruin as its creed."

Her gaze shifted, almost distant, as if she were watching something only she could see. He walks in Xeroth's shadow… but some say it's his own that even the god he is said to serve has come to fear. And now, that shadow has come to Xandria."

"Carrion Voss. He's here?" Liliana asked.

"Not the temple," Ikareia said. "But close. He lingers where the edges blur. Where the shards whisper their secrets freely, and the ground cannot hold its own reflection."

"The Crystal Chasms," Liliana said.

Ikareia's crystalline gaze remained distant. "The shards call to him as they do to all who are shattered. But he does not come alone. He carries ruin on his back, not as a burden, but as a banner—a herald of despair carved deeply into the marrow of existence."

Namara's arms crossed, her playful demeanor replaced by wary tension. "Great. So, he's not just a warlord; he's dragging the apocalypse along with him. Anything else?"

Ikareia's head turned toward Namara. "Do not mistake his hollow gaze for emptiness, soulbinder. His eyes hold the weight of a betrayal not his own, a wound carved deep by the blade of trust. The shards remember, whispering of a name etched into his ruin, a name he cannot forget… Aeloria."

"What about Aeloria?" Kale asked.

"She was his thread," Ikareia said softly. "Together they wove a tapestry of fire and steel, of light and shadow. They sang the same song, until the singer broke the blade."

"What does that mean?" Kale asked.

Ikareia only smiled, a fractured, cryptic expression. "The answers are not mine to give, young bladeweaver. They rest with the one who still sings the melody of his own undoing."

Liliana stepped forward. "You said he's near the chasms. Is he looking for something?"

"He seeks what he always seeks," Ikareia replied. "The severance of chains. The end of the song. And perhaps, the singer who cast him aside."

"Alright, enough riddles," Kale said, turning to the group. "If he's near the chasms, we can't let him get whatever he's after. Let's move."

"Beware, young bladeweaver. The shard you carry hums for him, as it once hummed for her. In the severing of bonds, whose hand holds the blade, and whose neck bears the cut?"

As the group began to move away, Ikareia stopped them. "One moment more." Her crystalline gaze settled on Rika. "For you, bearer of the silent drumbeat."

Rika turned, surprise flashing across her face. "Me?"

Ikareia stepped toward her. "Yes, you—the wanderer who walks paths forgotten, the ember that refuses to fade."

"I… I don't understand," Rika said.

"The shards remember you, child of echoes. They sing of a soul woven through countless tapestries, threads of courage stitching together the fabric of existence. Your footsteps have danced upon the edge of oblivion more times than even the stars can count."

Rika glanced at her companions, then back at Ikareia. "You've got the wrong person. I'm just... me."

"The wrong person?" Ikareia's voice held a hint of amusement. "Hardly. You are the one who faced the abyss and taught it to blink. The survivor of cycles unending, the shield that breaks but does not shatter. The sacrifice that steadied the song. The shards owe you a debt—a rare thing indeed."

Rika was unsure how to respond. "I… don't know what you're talking about."

"You wouldn't," Ikareia said, her smile faint and enigmatic. "The weight of lives past does not rest on your shoulders, but it lingers, a shadow without form. The shards whisper of debts unfulfilled, of paths that cross and cross again. They honor you, child of many lives, for what you do not remember and for what you have yet to do."

She extended her hand, revealing a diamond that shimmered with an inner light, as if galaxies swirled within its core. "Take this—a fragment of what was lost, a glimpse into the unseen. To replace the sight that was taken."

Rika hesitated before accepting the gem, its surface cool in her palm. "What is it?"

"A shard's gift," Ikareia replied. "Place it where vision once dwelled, and it will unveil the veiled—fractured paths, possibilities yet to be forged. But be warned: the visions are as treacherous as they are illuminating. The facets of fate are sharp, and they can cut those who delve too deeply."

Rika studied the diamond, a mixture of curiosity and caution in her gaze. "Why me?"

"Because you are the nexus of might-have-beens and could-be's. The shards honor your sacrifices—those remembered and those forgotten. You are the echo that reverberates through the halls of time, the constant in a sea of change."

Rika took a deep breath, then carefully placed the diamond into her empty eye socket. The gem settled seamlessly, a perfect fit as if meant for her alone. A sharp, fleeting pain bloomed, and Rika hissed, her hand flying to her face as the diamond seemed to fuse into place. For a moment, her vision erupted into chaos—splintered images of a hundred paths flashing before her, overlapping realities that blurred and clashed.

She staggered, infinite possibilities pressing upon her. "I... I can't—"

"Steady," Ikareia whispered. "Cover it when the burden grows too great. Control is yours to wield."

Fumbling slightly, Rika pulled her eyepatch back over the diamond. The swirling visions subsided, leaving her breathless.

Kale put his hand on her shoulder. "Rika, are you alright?"

She looked up. "I'm… I'm fine. Just... processing."

Ikareia watched her with an unreadable expression. "Remember, child of echoes: the gift reveals, but it does not decide. The paths you see are mere reflections, not destinations. Walk them wisely."

Rika met her gaze. "I will."

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Ikareia inclined her head ever so slightly. "Then may the shards sing favor upon your journey. The song continues through you."

"Thank you."

"Gratitude is a melody of its own, child. Carry it well, and the shards may yet weave it into your fate."

As the group turned to leave, Liliana cast a curious glance at Rika. "'Child of echoes,' huh? Just how many times have you been reincarnated?"

Rika managed a faint smile. "Honestly? I have no idea."

Namara twirled a strand of her hair around one finger. "Well, if we're handing out cryptic titles, I demand one too. Something impressive, mysterious… divine, even."

"How about 'the incessant one who talks too much?'" Liliana said dryly.

Sadek let out a low chuckle. "Heh. That fits."

Namara gasped in exaggerated offense, clutching her chest dramatically. "I am not incessant! I'm delightful, thank you very much!"

Liliana raised an eyebrow. "Really? I'm amazed you managed to stay quiet as long as you just did. Must've been agonizing for you."

Namara tilted her head, her lips curving into a sly smile. "Agonizing? Liliana, I truly don't understand why you insist on pretending I don't bring a little sparkle to your otherwise joyless existence. You're welcome, by the way."

Liliana folded her arms. "You're about as sparkly as a mud puddle, Namara."

Namara gasped again, even more dramatically this time, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. "A mud puddle? How dare you. I am the moon reflected in a midnight lake. Enigmatic. Alluring. Radiant. Ask Kale—he knows excellence when he sees it."

Kale blinked, caught off guard. "Uh—"

"See?" Namara cut in before he could respond, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Radiant."

"Let's focus," Kale interjected, his voice firm despite the faint smile tugging at his lips. "Voss isn't going to stop himself."

Namara huffed theatrically, waving a hand. "Fine, fine, spoil the fun. But when we're done with all this doom and gloom, we're revisiting my title. Something divine, mark my words."

Liliana rolled her eyes. "Can't wait."

Rika chuckled softly, adjusting her eyepatch.

Sadek strode ahead. "We're wasting time. Move."

***

The group moved through Xandria's streets, heading toward the crystalline chasms. The sharp angles of the shards above them seemed to twist the sunlight into strange, fractured beams, adding to the surreal atmosphere. The harriers followed closely, their silent presence a comforting reminder of their readiness for anything.

Kale broke the quiet first. "Unity? Severance? What was that all about?" His brows furrowed, and he glanced at Liliana. "Who is Lho?"

Liliana sighed softly, adjusting her pace to walk beside him. "Lho was one of the Primal Gods, like Yr. If Yr was the embodiment of severance, the act of cutting, breaking, and dividing, Lho represented the opposite: unity. The act of binding, mending, and connecting."

"They were opposites, then?" Kale asked.

"In a way," Liliana said. "But not enemies. Lho and Yr were... intertwined. Their domains depended on each other. Unity requires division to have meaning, and severance shapes the connections that remain."

Rika chimed in from behind. "So what, like cosmic frenemies? 'You cut, I glue' kind of deal?"

"Not quite. It's more profound than that. Yr's severance wasn't just about destruction—it was about transformation. And Lho's unity wasn't just about peace—it was about creating something greater from the sum of its parts."

"Sounds... complicated," Rika said. "So, why haven't I heard of them before?"

"Because they're dead," Liliana said bluntly. "The Primal Gods ruled during the First Epoch, long before the rise of the pantheon we know now. They died ages ago, their power scattered, their stories reduced to whispers and forgotten myths."

Kale's gaze lingered on the shards around them, his mind turning over the words. "So what's their connection to this place?"

Liliana paused for a moment, considering. "Xandria's identity is tied to Yr. The shards you see around us? They're fragments of her sword, the weapon she used to divide realms and concepts alike. But if Yr's severance shaped Xandria, Lho's unity lingers too. You can see it in how life thrives here, even in the shadow of destruction. Balance, in a way."

Kale nodded slowly. "And Yr… severed everything, right? Realms, gods, whatever?"

Liliana's voice softened. "Yes. Yr's blade wasn't just a weapon—it was her. The goddess of severance made manifest. It didn't just cut flesh. It severed bonds, sundered realities, carved truth from illusion. Yr's actions weren't always cruel, but they were always final."

Sadek, who had been walking silently ahead, spoke without turning. "The marks of the Primal Gods linger in places like this. You can feel it."

Kale couldn't deny it—the shards seemed to be humming faintly with an energy he didn't fully understand. "So, Yr cut everything apart. And Lho tried to hold it all together."

Liliana nodded. "And like all the Primal Gods, they paid the price for their roles. Creation, destruction, severance, unity... they were the forces that shaped the First Epoch. But shaping creation comes with consequences. None of them survived it."

Namara tilted her head. "Kind of poetic, isn't it? They created everything, and everything ended up breaking them."

"Poetic or tragic," Liliana said.

"Just how many of these Primal Gods were there?" Kale asked. "Feels like every day, somehow more gods are popping up."

Liliana sighed, her scholarly tone returning. "Seven. There were seven Primal Gods. Two came first—Vel, the God of Creation, and Khe, the Goddess of Destruction. The others were their children, shaped from the tension between being and unbeing."

She began counting them off on her fingers. "Yr, the Goddess of Severance. Lho, the Goddess of Unity. Ral, the God of Desire. Shael, the Goddess of Time. And Thos, the God of Dreams."

"Seven all-powerful beings," Namara said.

"They weren't just beings," Liliana said. "They were concepts, personified. They were the forces that shaped reality, the foundation of everything. And when they broke, reality itself fractured with them."

Kale walked slower as he considered her words. "So what happened then?"

"Reality cracked," Liliana said. "Not all at once. Not visibly. But when the Primal Gods broke, the forces they embodied spun out of control. Severance became senseless division. Dreams bled into waking. Time slipped, unanchored. Desire burned without end. Unity unraveled, and the bonds between all things dissolved. What was once one became many… and then many became enemies."

She looked up. "That was the Second Epoch, when reality itself lost its shape. Chaos ruled. Nothing stayed whole. Nothing stayed still."

Kale's brow furrowed. "And then what? What stopped it?"

"Order, eventually," Liliana said. "New gods rose. Some by accident, some by force. Each one claimed a sliver of what was broken. And the more domains they took hold of, the more stable the world became. That's what marks the Third Epoch: not peace, but structure."

"So what caused them to break?"

Liliana was quiet for a moment. "No one knows for certain. Some say they disagreed on how the world should be, and The Seven turned on each other. Some say the balance they so carefully maintained was shattered by accident, a moment of imbalance, causing everything to collapse in on itself. There are those who claim they sacrificed themselves. That they gave themselves willingly, tore out their hearts and left pieces of themselves behind so we could build something new."

"And some say they never died at all," Namara said. That The Seven are still here. Watching. Waiting. Guiding."

Kale looked at the giant shards that filled the horizon. Even now, he couldn't get used to their sheer scale. All around him, life carried on. People lived in these things. Whole neighborhoods were built into them—homes, markets, temples. Some shards were hollowed out, others fused together with bridges and steel. This wasn't some ruin on the edge of history. This was a city.

So were these part of Yr's sword?

That was the story, anyway. Seven gods, great and terrible. A sword that could sever truth from lie, soul from body, world from world. And then it broke.

What could have shattered a sword like that?

For a blade to break this badly, whatever hit it must have been as powerful as the one who wielded it. Maybe Liliana was right. Maybe the gods turned on each other. Maybe Severance cut too deep, and Unity couldn't hold the pieces.

Then again, who was left to tell the tale? There were no records. No survivors. Only myths passed down by people who came after, trying to explain the impossible.

What if it didn't break in battle? What if it was never a sword at all?

He glanced upward. One of the larger shards rose like a jagged pillar of lightning frozen in metal, wide as a fortress, tall enough to vanish into the clouds. If it had been a blade—if this really was just one fragment of Yr's weapon—then the full weapon must have been unimaginably vast.

The one who wielded it must have been taller than the tallest mountain. A being so large it could walk across nations, carve valleys with the swing of an arm. Was that even possible?

Then again, these weren't just gods. They were The Seven. The first. The architects of everything.

If they created the world, Kale thought, then the rules probably didn't apply to them at all.

Scale, physics, reason, those were mortal constraints. The Seven moved by older laws, if they moved by laws at all.

Whatever these shards really were, whether blade or something else entirely, one truth remained: they resonated with an undeniable power. Not imagined. Not myth. Real. And still here.

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