Vyrn’s shattered plains tremble, their cracked crystal surfaces splintering under a sky torn by rifts, void-shadows pulsing like veins, starlight flickering in their wake. I am Aelys, mortal and fraying, my lunar mark a ghost of a scar, my eyes stinging from void-dust, my silvered hair matted against my neck, Lena’s spark a faltering pulse in my chest. My blade, etched with Elara’s runes, weighs heavy, its steel warm from my grip as I lead Kalia and the group—Cassia, Renn, Maddox, Sylvara, Lysara, Theryn, Zorath, Valthor, Lirien, Kael—toward the rift-core, a void-altar looming ahead, its obsidian spires radiating a hymn that claws at my bones, the Veil’s thread unraveling with each pulse. Kalia’s blue aura flickers beside me, her rift-touched orb casting jagged sparks, her twin-star eyes wide, her breath sharp, her fingers twitching around the orb. I catch her wrist, my grip firm, my voice low, barely audible over the altar’s hum. “Kalia, feel the Veil—don’t chase the rift.” Her nod i
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