The Crystal Spire's infirmary glowed faintly, starlight runes pulsing along obsidian walls, their hum a distant echo of the gates' power. Ethan Cole lay on a stone cot, his acolyte tunic torn, wounds from Aetherion's outskirts—arm, chest, back, side—bandaged but raw, the shield rune's toll a fire in his veins. His gatekeeper sigil flickered, surge and navigation runes' strain mingling with the Voidspawn skirmish's aftermath, where Taryn's blood stained the plains and Lirien's hesitation cut deeper than claws.
Ethan's vision blurred, his pulse erratic, the starlight in his sigil dimming. A healer, her robes shimmering, pressed a rune-etched crystal to his chest, starlight flaring, pain spiking. "You've burned too much, Marcus," she said, voice stern. "Starlight's not free—push harder, it'll claim you." Ethan nodded weakly, the surge rune's collapse in the Sanctum and shield rune's strain against Star-eaters exposing starlight's cost. The healer's warning echoed Torren's gruff lesson at the Ashen Veil: Gates demand blood or will.
Torren Kade entered, his weathered face grim, starlight blade sheathed. "Still breathing, stranger?" he asked, leaning against the wall. Ethan sat up, pain lancing his side, Taryn's grin haunting him. "Barely," he rasped, meeting Torren's piercing gaze. The old gatekeeper's presence, steady as obsidian, carried the Verdant Threshold's tremor's weight, where void-energy spikes had drawn him days ago. "Sylra's report says you held the shield rune," Torren said, voice low. "Sloppy, but you saved them. Lirien, though…" He trailed off, eyes narrowing, her hesitation a shadow between them.
Ethan's pulse quickened, Lirien's faltering in the skirmish a gaping wound. "She froze," he said, testing Torren. "Cost Taryn his life." Torren's jaw tightened, blade hand flexing. "Marcus had a theory," he said, voice rough. "Some gatekeepers carry void-taint, hidden, twisting their will. He thought it was in the Council—Valthor, maybe, or an elder. Probed too deep, got burned." Ethan's breath caught, Marcus's memory of a secret meeting—gatekeepers warning of a void-tainted traitor—aligning with Torren's words. Valthor's snarl in the skirmish's memory, you'll never speak, burned clearer. Was Lirien tainted, or a pawn? Torren's gaze held him. "Marcus trusted you with that journal, stranger. Don't waste it."
Discharged from the infirmary, Ethan limped to a Serathys shrine within the Spire, its obsidian spire crowned with a starlight orb, runes humming with divine order. The journal's clue—The shrine holds answers—drove him, a beacon against Nullvox's hunger. Kneeling at the altar, he traced its runes, starlight sparking, his sigil burning. Pain seared his chest, vision swimming, the shield rune's toll resurfacing. His fingers faltered, starlight surging unchecked, veins glowing beneath his skin. Marcus's memory flashed: An elder's ichor-stained hands, runes blackening. Ethan collapsed, breath ragged, starlight's weight crushing. The shrine's hum steadied him, its runes cooling his sigil, but the healer's warning rang true—starlight could kill.
Hours later, in his quarters, Ethan retrieved the journal, its leather worn, runes faintly glowing. Taryn's death, Lirien's hesitation, and Torren's void-taint theory pressed him, the Verdant Threshold's tremor a warning of sabotage. He traced the journal's coded runes, starlight sparking, pain gnawing. His sigil flared, nose bleeding, vision darkening, but he pushed through, runes resolving: Nullvox's shadow grows. Ethan's heart sank, the clue tying to the obelisk's ichor in the skirmish, the Verdant Threshold's instability, and Zorathys's stirring in the tenth gate.