Sand moved where it shouldn't.
The Vaeth-Khor dunes had been still for centuries, untouched by wind, beast, or prayer. And yet now they pulsed like a slow heartbeat. Beneath them, something ancient stirred—not a beast, not a god, but a man who had chosen to die rather than serve.
"They said the Flame could redeem all things," the voice whispered beneath the earth.
"They were wrong."
The crypt unsealed itself with no sound.
Stone melted into dust. Bone reknit. Cloth drew itself from ruin.
And in the dark, a shape sat up.
He was tall—taller than any man should be. His eyes, closed for centuries, opened not with sight but with judgment.
Eren Tel'Vareen had returned.
He stood slowly, his joints whispering secrets as they unlocked. His armor bore no emblem, only scarred metal shaped like broken wings. His blade lay beside him—still sheathed in a knot of obsidian cords.
He looked down at it.
"You waited," he said to the sword. "Good."
He drew it.
It did not shine.
It remembered.
Outside, the sandstorm arrived not with wind, but with names.
Dozens of them, lost soldiers of the First Flame war, echoing through the dust. Eren did not flinch. These were not enemies.
They were warnings.
"She's weaving them back," he muttered. "She doesn't understand what she's unsealing."
He closed his eyes and reached outward—not with magic, but with memory.
And he felt her.
Lira.
He saw her reflection in the loomlight. Her grief. Her strength.
"Too much like Serai," he murmured.
"Too kind."
Then came the vision.
The sky split.
A second star—falling.
A blade, made not of steel, but of choice. Hurtling toward her.
He grimaced.
"They've sent the Severer."
He turned toward the north.
His fingers tightened on the blade.
"If she dies before the final thread is woven… the world will forget itself again."
"Not this time."
He began to walk.
With each step, the ground behind him remembered what it was—a battlefield.
Miles away, in the Threadlands, Lira staggered.
Ashrel caught her.
"You felt it too?" he asked.
She nodded, breath trembling.
"He's awake," she said. "And already walking."
Davin looked to the sky, where the burning blade star was drawing closer.
"Do we stop him?"
"No," Lira said. "We find him. Before the Severer does."
Somewhere beyond the dunes, hidden in a lost canyon, an ancient woman sat in silence—her eyes blind, her memory perfect.
She whispered to no one:
"The Heretic walks again. And the flame-child has made her first mistake."
"Let's hope it won't be her last."