The sky over Kareth was unnaturally still.
Elira stood at the edge of the crumbled courtyard, her eyes fixed on the shattered mosaic beneath her feet—the same courtyard where Caelen had once battled alone, blade singing with sorrow. Now, silence pressed in like a held breath. Behind her, Caelen descended the staircase that had been revealed only days ago, after a tremor cracked the earth open. He moved cautiously, torch in hand, each step echoing deeper than it should have.
A stairway that led nowhere had become a stairway to something.
"Are you sure this is wise?" Elira asked, tightening her cloak. "We don't know what we'll find down there."
Caelen's jaw clenched, the Weeping Blade—still wrapped for now—resting at his hip. "We've both felt it. This… pull. The curse hums stronger the closer we get. I need to understand why."
Together, they descended.
The passage narrowed as they went, runes etched into the walls dimly glowing with sorrowful blue light. Some were familiar—prayers of mourning, oaths of silence—but others were in no tongue either of them recognized. Not ancient Aerthalic, not the temple script. These words wept. Their shapes hurt to look at for too long.
At last, the passage opened into a wide vault—an underground cathedral carved from black stone, its domed ceiling impossibly high, veined with glowing minerals that looked like starlight frozen mid-fall.
In the center of the chamber stood a pedestal. Upon it rested a crystalline structure, half-buried in silver dust. It pulsed faintly. Like a heartbeat.
Elira drew closer, whispering, "It feels… alive."
Caelen didn't answer at first. He stepped to the pedestal, fingers hovering just above the crystal's surface. The Weeping Blade hummed in its scabbard, and the scar on his chest burned—not with pain, but with a low, sorrowful vibration. Something ancient recognized him. Something remembered.
He touched the crystal.
A rush of wind spiraled through the chamber. The starlit ceiling pulsed once—and the world bent.
They weren't in the vault anymore.
They stood on a plain of ash beneath a twilight sky. No stars. No sun. Just a pale glow that came from nowhere. Shadows moved across the horizon—tall, graceful, sorrowful figures that sang without mouths and walked without feet.
"Elira—" Caelen turned, but she was gone.
He was alone.
The figures circled, whispering his name in languages he didn't know, yet understood. They showed him visions: the fall of forgotten cities, lovers embracing beneath moons long dead, a child born from silence, weeping without tears.
Then, a voice—a child's voice, trembling but powerful—rose from the void.
"You weep because the world cannot hold your kindness. You burn because the weight is too much. Do you not see? You are not alone. You never were."
And then the sky shattered like glass.
Caelen gasped and stumbled back. He was on the floor of the chamber again, Elira cradling his head.
"Caelen! You vanished for seconds—then collapsed."
He stared at her, eyes wide. "They called me something. The Tear-Bearer. They showed me a plain of ash… and a child. Not a child. A voice inside everything."
Elira helped him sit up. "A god?"
"I don't know," Caelen whispered. "But it mourned. It mourned before the first dawn of Aerthalin."
They looked at the crystal again.
It now pulsed brighter.
Elira frowned. "Caelen. What if Eredan-Mir wasn't the beginning of the numbness? What if he was a response to it?"
A silence fell between them—full of implications neither wanted to speak aloud.
If there was a being older than the gods of Aerthalin…
If it had wept for eternity…
If Caelen's curse had awakened it…
Then their journey had only begun.