Elirion's edge was a place of silence—not peace, but absence.
The wind here did not whistle; it remembered.
Darius stood at the threshold of a wasteland dotted with toppled thrones, broken scepters, and statues decayed by neglect. A valley of abandoned reigns.
Kaela walked beside him, her fingers dancing in the air, flickering with uncertain sigils that responded to memory more than magic. Nyx trailed them like a wraith, her eyes narrowed.
"They call this place the Sepulcher of Echoed Crowns," Nyx murmured. "Where names lost to time try to scream their way back into relevance."
But it wasn't just a metaphor.
The air trembled. Not with storms, not with beasts—but voices.
Dozens. Hundreds. More.
A low murmur built into a chorus—not spoken in unison, but stacked in layers like conflicting histories.
> "I was the first to unify the blood clans—"
"I burned cities for peace—"
"They forgot me when the rivers dried—"
