The sun bled gold over the spires of Eldrath as Lyara climbed the crystal steps of the ruined sanctum. The air shimmered with ancient wards, faint and flickering. She pressed her palm against the runes on the obsidian door. Sparks leapt from her fingertips, the lock grudgingly yielding.
Inside, the Heart of Vael pulsed on its pedestal—a sphere of molten light, the last source of true magic. Lyara reached for it, but a shadow coiled from the darkness. A wraithlord, its hollow helm wreathed in frost.
“You would unbind the world,” it rasped.
Lyara clenched her fist. Magic surged through her veins, burning as she summoned flames. The wraith struck; she dodged, searing its essence with fire. It shrieked, unraveling into mist.
Breathless, she cradled the Heart. The walls trembled. The magic was waking, and with it, the world. As she stepped into the dawn, power crackled in her grasp—Eldrath would rise again.
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