The Concord Watchtower hovered like a shard of ice and glass over the shattered lands below. Inside, the surveillance chamber glowed faintly blue, walls lined with crystal monitors and sigil-mapped displays. Every shard, every floating ruin, every trace of energy was visible to the watchers.

  A voice cut through the silence.

  “We have a glyph resonance. Confirmed Hollow Flame signature. Class-7 anomaly.”

  Another replied over the comms, clipped and urgent:

  “Alert the Inquisitorum. Priority reroute to Godgrave Shard.”

  Far below, the Inquisitor staggered through rubble, cloak trailing smoke, mask cracked to reveal scorched flesh beneath. His black crystal communicator glimmered.

  “He survived… The glyph is live. He activated it.”

  Across the vast Concord Council Chamber, massive figures sat shrouded in darkness behind curtains of floating sigil-light. Even in shadow, their presence was oppressive, godlike.

  This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

  “The Hollow Flame chose a vessel,” one curator said, voice like distant thunder.

  “That flame nearly ended the sky,” another added, concern threading through the calm.

  “Then we must ensure he does not rise with it,” a third concluded, cold and precise.

  Meanwhile, in a half-collapsed temple on a lower shard, Binyamin and Naela sought refuge. Faint murals along the walls glowed red as Binyamin approached, depicting a burning god raining fire across the sky.

  “That’s the symbol on your chest… He was called the Ember Warden,” Naela whispered, pointing.

  Binyamin’s pulse echoed through his chest. “Then why does it feel like it’s trying to burn me alive?”

  A deep, ancient voice whispered in his mind:

  “I chose you… not to survive… but to finish what I began.”

  Binyamin’s hands clenched around his cloak. The Sigil pulsed stronger, almost alive. Somewhere deep within, a spark of purpose—or warning—ignited. The shadows of the temple leaned closer, silent and patient.