In the high sanctums of the Divine Courts, whispers carried faster than prayers.
The Court of Silence was the first to take notice.
Within a sphere of pure soundlessness, nine cloaked figures circled a reflection pool, its surface showing the shifting weave of divine ley lines. One thread—golden, trembling—had just vanished.
"A tether... cut?" one of the figures signed in elegant gestures.
Another responded in kind. No announcement of war. No divine declaration. Only silence... and severance.
Eyes turned toward the mortal realm, where a once-pulsing conduit now flickered out like a candle in the void.
Not a strike. A scalpel.
They fell still. Someone was moving beneath the surface—and they were precise.
The Court of Chains was next.
Steel-bound priests screamed as the siphon temple's flow of faith collapsed. Gears halted, scripts bled divine ichor from stone walls. The high inquisitor, bound in barbed light, stared at the torn leyline with growing dread.
"Divine breach! But no aura matches known enemies."
Another priest whispered, "The Obsidian Veil?" But even as he said it, doubt clouded his gaze.
Chains had not prepared for this. They were a court built on fear, on control. And someone had just slipped past both.
In the Ember Crucible, domain of the Flame Court, alarms burned in white-hot fire across divine altars. An augur knelt before a shifting mirror of molten glass, sweat beading on her brow.
"Two signals vanished, Lord Regent. One faith stream. One false treaty beacon. Both struck in perfect synchrony."
The Flame Regent, skin cracked with embers, frowned. "Not a frontal attack. This is something... colder."
His lieutenant stepped forward. "Shall I mobilize the War Choir?"
"No," the Regent muttered, eyes narrowing. "Not yet. Whoever this is—they want to lure us into reacting blindly. We will watch. We will see."
But already, suspicion spread like fire on dry leaves. And beneath that, panic—the rarest flame in a court of wrath.
And far away, in a forgotten cavern laced with moonlight and still water, she stirred.
Lysaria, goddess once of purity, now bound in exile, opened her eyes and smiled faintly.
"So... you've begun pulling threads."
The air shimmered with her voice, though no one else heard it.
"You walk the path I once dreamed of, Chen Ming. Strike quiet. Cut clean. Let them never see the storm until it's too late."
She dipped a finger into the spring, sending soft ripples into the reflection of the divine map.
"And when the last tether falls... I will be waiting."