In a sanctum buried beneath a mountain older than language, lit by the ethereal glow of floating runes and bleeding crystal veins, Voryn stood motionless before the Scrying Pool. Its glassy surface shimmered, not with water, but with reality distilled—visions coiled in liquid light. Around him, thirteen elder figures formed a circle. They were draped in robes spun from dying stars and memories too ancient for mortals. None of them breathed, yet all were alive, their presence bending time itself.
The pool's vision displayed the aftermath of the Laginaple battle. Shin stood at the center of the ruins, surrounded by the warriors of the Fourth Talon. Yoshimatsu, radiant with High Frequency crimson, was buried into the blackened stone. Clarent rested at Zera's side, humming with dormant rage. Laverna's necklace glowed faintly, foxfire spiraling in sync with her pulse. The rebel army moved through the wreckage like flowing veins, spreading life where death had reigned.
Voryn broke the silence. His voice was cold, measured, etched in inevitability.
"He has awakened it."
A ripple of murmurs moved through the council. One elder—a woman with eyes like obsidian wells—spoke without opening her mouth. Her thoughts carried like whispers on wind.
"The Crest of Elders responds to his soul. The same soul that bore the First Flame. It was never supposed to survive."
Another elder, cloaked in silver feathers, stepped forward. "Clarent's flare, Laverna's necklace, the synchronization of Crests. They echo the prophecy. The convergence has begun."
"And yet," a hunched elder rasped, "they still know nothing of its true purpose. The Crest was never meant for salvation."
Voryn raised one pale hand, fingers thin as bone. The scrying surface changed. It focused on Shin's orb—pulsing with the remnants of dragonlight. Then shifted to Yoshimatsu. The blade resonated with a forgotten frequency, vibrating in harmony with Clarent's magic.
"Yoshimatsu's core remembers. Dragonheart. Forged in blood older than Soma."
A silence fell again, deeper this time. The name carried weight even here.
Another vision flared in the pool—Mariam. Her corrupted form deep within the Falzath crypts, her arms outstretched as if pleading with the dark. Her skin shimmered with Soma-tainted corruption, veins alight with parasitic power.
"The queen's fall is irreversible," muttered one of the younger elders. "She belongs to the shadow now."
"And Tristan?" asked the feathered elder.
The vision shifted once more. It displayed the last moment of Tristan's projection—his eyes no longer human, filled with Soma's madness. The way his magic trembled when facing Shin, not with fear but with awe.
"He was a pawn," Voryn said. "The Crest of Elders was the key—he was never the lock."
They fell into thought again. Even the air felt heavier.
A final image emerged. A sealed temple far to the east. Chains of astral matter bound its gate. In its heart, something stirred. A relic. Not of Soma or Falzath—but of something far older. It pulsed like a heartbeat caught between life and death. Red and gold. A light both divine and ruinous.
"It has begun," said the obsidian-eyed elder. "The next relic calls."
"Let them chase it," Voryn whispered, eyes never leaving the pool. "Let them gather their faith and their heroes. Let them believe in victory."
He turned to the council. The glow of the pool cast sharp shadows across his face, sharpening the cruel edge of his cheekbones.
"Because when they reach it, they will understand. The Soma dream was never theirs. It was always ours."
Lightning cracked outside the sanctum. A false storm conjured by arcane reaction.
The elders said nothing.
They merely watched.
Watched as the light in the scrying pool dimmed, revealing Shin's silhouette walking into another battlefield. The rebellion surged behind him, the Crests at their backs. Fire, wind, foxfire, steel, thunder, faith.
But beneath it all—an echo stirred.
Something deep.
Something old.
And in the temple to the east, the relic pulsed again.
Once.
Twice.
Then did not stop.
The game had shifted.
Volume Seven would begin in fire.
And it would end in shadow.