The Mantled Realm was not a place. It was a verdict written into the bones of heaven.
Beyond sky and below all flame, it hung—an endless firmament carved from ancient covenants and bound by the weight of unyielded vows. There, the Nine Sovereigns gathered, not in stone halls or sanctified courts, but upon a Circle of Flame suspended above the Sea of Judgment, where memory burned and time wept in stillness.
Nine thrones glowed with elemental grandeur, each sculpted from the Principle it once swore to uphold:
Flame to Crown.
Bloom to Root.
Silence to Shadow.
Ice to Mirror.
And so on, through names older than worship.
One throne remained charred and hollow, its sigils fractured, its presence an accusation. The Tenth Seat, long vacant, bore no mantle but that of exile.
At the Circle's heart, Velrith of Crownfire rose. His voice, a blade veiled in sermon, echoed through the shimmering void.
"We are summoned. Not by ritual—but by consequence."
His mantle burned gold veined with arterial red, casting long shadows across the Sea beneath.
"The Spiral Flame lives. The Hollow persists. Against decree. Against silence. Against us."
Across from him, Ysera of Bloomtide sat wreathed in green fire braided with blossoms that did not wither. Her gaze was not confrontational—but mournful.
"Or perhaps… it lives because we buried it."
To her left, Nex, the Pale Sovereign, remained still, her form shrouded in permafrost flame that bent the air into illusions of forgotten snows.
Riven, Silencebearer, simply breathed—and the Circle shuddered. His throne pulsed like a forgotten bell tolling for memory's dead.
Dareth, Lord of the Mirrorflame, broke the silence next—his voice refracting.
"We said the Hollow could not endure. And yet it weaves rites unseen since the Founding. What it gathers... may soon surpass what we've buried."
Velrith's eyes burned brighter, casting sparks like accusations.
"Kaien Maerok is not merely a disciple. He is the echo of a rebellion we silenced with fire and oath. He unseals truths we chose to forget. Shall we allow that breach to fester?"
Ysera rose, blossoms blooming across her shoulders, vines trailing words older than speech.
"I remember Alvar. I remember the war. And I remember the day we broke the Tenth to spare the world its mirror."
Her voice cracked—not from weakness, but from weight.
"I will not burn what dares to remember again."
Velrith stepped forward. His shadow loomed across thrones.
"Then you defy the Accord."
Ysera's fingers opened. A single bloom fell—petals spiraling downward into the Sea of Judgment.
"Perhaps the Accord was the first betrayal."
From the far seat, the Skybrand Seer, Theryx, spoke at last, his voice rippling like stormlight through the void.
"Storm gathers. Flame divides. One of us will fracture before this circle closes."
And then the Circle grew still.
No vote was cast.
No verdict spoken.
But the air shifted, and the Accord shivered.
Somewhere beneath the Mantled Realm, an old chain cracked.
The Hollow had not yet spoken.
But its myth had already reached them.
The Spiral Tree stirred.
Not in wind—there was no wind within the Hollow's heart—but in memory. The bark shimmered faintly as though touched by visions not yet born. At its roots, Kaien knelt in meditation, hands resting on the earth, eyes closed. Around him, dreamfire whispered through the soil.
A tremor passed beneath his palms.
He exhaled.
"The Accord is fraying."
Lyra's voice came from behind, quiet but resolute. "They met."
He nodded. "The Circle does not gather for pageantry. Something was decided, even if no decree was spoken."
Lyra stepped forward, placing a small sprouting Spiral Seed beside him. "Vel'Quen has begun to dream again. The other beasts stir."
Kaien opened his eyes.
"They remember what the Sovereigns would rather remain buried."
His gaze turned toward the sky—not to see it, but to feel the pressure coiled above. A weight older than flame pressed against the world's bones.
"They will come. Some to kneel. Some to silence. And some…"
He trailed off.
"Some will come simply to remember."
At the Hollow's southern terraces, the disciples gathered. Rin, Aira, Nemin—newly returned from the Thornvale—now led training for initiates, passing down the rites of Bloom and Memory.
Aira guided students in soil-sight, coaxing Spiral Seeds to bloom in memory-laced soil.
"Each root carries a story," she told them. "Your flame does not command it. It listens."
Nearby, Nemin etched calligraphy into stone tablets, binding fragments of the Mourning Coil's memory into eternal script.
And Rin simply watched. Observed. Thought.
"Why do we teach rites they once forbade?" asked a younger disciple.
Rin smiled faintly. "Because truth is older than law. And because the Hollow grows toward what the world forgets."
In the Flameforge Hall, Cael stood before the weapon crafters, hands upon a blade wrought from the remains of an ancient dreambeast. Sovereign steel hummed in its core.
He turned to the smith.
"I need it to carry memory. Not just kill."
The smith arched a brow. "You want it to speak?"
"To sing," Cael corrected. "Like the old weapons. Like those the Accord buried."
The smith nodded slowly.
"It will take time."
"We have little," Cael said. "But we have flame. And memory."
That night, the Spiral Tree bloomed again.
Beneath its boughs, Kaien gathered his inner circle.
Lyra, Cael, Rin, Nemin, Aira.
He spoke without raising his voice.
"The Accord will act. And soon."
Silence fell over them.
"So what do we do?" Lyra asked.
Kaien looked to the seed at his feet. It pulsed faintly.
"We remember what grows."
Then he stood.
"And we prepare for them to try and burn it down."