Not your Bonded, but the one that would call himself his brother.
You will see, Auryn’reh Solah. You will witness.
Look there, above you. The ceiling of the cavern is red, bleeding into black. Beneath it, a vast spherical cloak of golden magic wraps around the city like a shield. Cracks spider-web across it, leaking light that no longer warms—only sears.
The drums are beating. Beating. Beating.
Emerald light coalesces beneath your feet. Walk the path, Numen. Follow it.
One by one, you take the steps towards your doom, halting right at the edge of a narrow bridge fashioned of onyx and stone. The bridge spans more than a mile, the only way to enter the city across a gaping chasm. TheMaw, it is called. But you would not remember, not broken with love and mortal wants.
Stumbling to the cliff’s edge, you look down. Nausea blooms in your belly. You taste bile, and clutch at the bridge in terror. A voice comes, whispering right against your ear. Dark. Rumbling. Like a beast just learning human speech.
Welcome…welcome home…
You shudder, twisting around. But only more darkness greets you. No going back. Only forward. Across the bridge. Across the chasm. So, you walk. Step by step, craning your neck to look upwards into the faces of the effigies lining the bridge.
Empty. Hollow. Their eyes frozen while their mouths open in snarls and shrieks. Beyond the bridge, a horn blares—deep, throaty, shaking the entire cavern. Something pierces the glowing shield over the city. Two shafts stab downwards from the ceiling right into the heart of the metropolis. Gears turn somewhere deep within. Enormous mirrors shift.
Then light.
So bright it blinds.
Overwhelming, stealing your breath.
The shafts bring daylight from the Surface to this world which knows only shadow.
You walk. Enthralled. Hypnotized.
All around you, the drums still pound.
Beating. Beating. Beating.
The horns blare again.
You gasp as the effigies and the bridge beneath you collapse, twisting. The world around you breaks again. Something pushes you with the force of a hammer at your back, and when you open your eyes, you are kneelingon a black marble floor before dozens of robed figures. Their fingers pointed to you, shouting and accusing.
“Sokâr,” one of them hisses.
“Impostor,” another declares.
“Shapeless. Colorless. Useless ornament!”
“Heretic. Witch! Blasphemer!”
They raise their hands. Chains of crystal light slither through the air, wrapping around your wrists, your throat, your ribs. You gasp. Choke. Can’t breathe. Can’tmove.
Look at what you’ve chosen—a voice growls.
Not the robed figures. From behind her. From the pulpit, where a stone altar looms—slick with blood, veiled in smoke. A figure steps forward through the fog.
Tall. Towering. Familiar.
Your breath catches. You scramble to your feet. And the way you run to him. The shame of the relief on your face. As if just seeing him will break the chains of your fate. As if jumping into his embrace will cure you of your many deformations.
“Kailorien,” you whisper.
But it is not the Resh’Agar. Nor is it your Bonded. Look closely, fallen star. The figure bears his shape. His stance. Even the tilt of his head. But his eyes burnred—molten, merciless. His mana is tainted. Coiled with madness.
