Four days later, Merial and Syrial climbed the misty trails again. Each step was a struggle against the thick mud and cutting cold. They wore ceramic masks to filter void particles, and their soaked garments clung to their light leather armor. The young apprentice carried a reinforced bag with samples of gray soil, corroded pieces of Shyrr, and fragments of burned ideograms.
"We need to reach the University and report what happened. Future inspections will need to be done in groups and with combatants," said Syrial, her gaze fixed on the shrouded horizon.
Merial nodded, feeling the weight of the fragmented glyphs in her bag. The nights were marked by discreet escapes: they disguised themselves at the gates of Alderyn as Naruun root merchants; along the way, they helped an injured messenger and heard reports of tremors in the Arenya caves and sandstorms in Sangor.
But the sensation of being watched made the air even colder. Two figures glided between the twisted trees, without touching the ground—dark silhouettes that disappeared upon reaching the trunks. Merial, in particular, noticed fleeting glimmers of strange runes on the leaves, as if ancient symbols were being activated to track them.
The Words of Power that marked her skin tingled with a subtle warning. Unlike normal tattoos, the Sylarei runes existed in a state between physical and magical reality. They responded not just to conscious activation but also to environmental threats and magical disturbances. This sensitivity was part of what made the Sylarei such effective magical practitioners—their very bodies served as detection instruments for arcane anomalies.
"Master, there's... something following us," murmured Merial, squeezing Syrial's hand, her eyes wide with tension.
"Stay alert. If it's an enemy, we'll need to act quickly."
The trail, previously narrow, opened onto a plateau covered with luminescent bamboo—a sign that they were near the University of Ny'theras.
The University stood as a testament to the centuries-old alliance between the Sylarei and Verithil races. Its crystal towers rose from the misty plateau like frozen waterfalls, catching and refracting light in hypnotic patterns. The architecture blended the Sylarei's affinity for living structures with the Verithil's precision and foresight. Gardens floated suspended between buildings, connected by bridges that seemed too delicate to support weight yet never faltered.
Within its walls, the two races shared knowledge and resources, though not without tension. The Sylarei contributed their mastery of Words of Power and linguistic magic, while the Verithil offered their unparalleled insights from arcane visions and predictive abilities. Together, they had created the most prestigious center of magical learning in all of Inhevaen.
Yet recent events had strained this alliance. The Verithil Council had grown increasingly secretive about certain visions, particularly those concerning the Dome's integrity. Meanwhile, some Sylarei elders questioned whether their Verithil counterparts were withholding crucial information that could help address the proliferation of Dead Zones.
On the third night, they slept under a starless sky. In her dream, Merial heard a voice echo in her mental space, almost destroying her consciousness:
"When all runes are united, the Dome will sing—and the Bearer will hear. Protect him, Merial."
She awoke with a start, her heart pounding against her ribs. The dream lingered in her mind, not fading like ordinary dreams but remaining sharp and clear, as if the words had been carved directly into her thoughts. The voice had been neither male nor female, neither young nor old—it simply was, vast and ancient as the Dome itself.
Merial had studied dream interpretation at the University, learning that for Sylarei, dreams often served as conduits for magical insights too complex for the waking mind to process. But this felt different. More urgent. More real.
The sky had disappeared beneath red clouds—as if the firmament itself clamored for urgency.
She glanced at Syrial, still sleeping nearby, and wondered if she should wake her mentor. But what would she say? That a mysterious voice had spoken to her about the Bearer—a figure of prophecy that many dismissed as mere legend? That she, an apprentice who had barely mastered her initial runes, was somehow meant to protect this mythical figure?
The Bearer. The one who would awaken all seven gifts. The one who could hear the Dome's song. Merial had read the ancient texts that spoke of such a person, but they were considered allegorical by most serious scholars at the University. Yet the voice in her dream had spoken of him as real—present, not future.
Merial traced the outline of her runes with trembling fingers. "When all runes are united," the voice had said. What runes? Her own? The collective knowledge of the Sylarei? Or something else entirely? And who was she meant to protect? The Bearer remained unnamed in her dream, a shadow without form.
As dawn broke through the red clouds, Merial resolved to keep the dream to herself, at least until they reached the safety of the University. There, perhaps, she could consult the restricted archives for mentions of similar prophetic dreams. For now, the immediate danger of their journey demanded her full attention.
Meanwhile, in Olkaris, the Olkhar nobles gathered in the Crystal Hall exchanged rumors about tremors in the Dome. A coded message from the Sylarei capital had arrived a few hours ago: Dead Zones appearing in all kingdoms. As if the constant attacks on Shyrr shipments weren't problems enough.
In the immense hall, the air vibrated with tension and murmurs. The Olkhar representatives, wearing mantles woven with metallic threads, exchanged worried glances as Elder Thomis ascended to the podium. Behind him, the quartz panels reflected the embers from the council's basement, where emissaries from all races participated virtually through projections.
The Crystal Council sessions had grown increasingly contentious in recent months. What had once been a forum for diplomatic resolution had devolved into thinly veiled threats and political maneuvering. The Arenya representative, a stone-skinned giant whose muscles rippled with barely contained strength, glared at the Verithil emissary—a slender figure whose golden eyes seemed to see through everyone present.
"The Arenya territories have suffered three new Dead Zone formations in the past month alone," rumbled the giant. "Yet the Verithil continue to block our access to the Shyrr deposits that could protect our people."
"Those deposits lie within our ancestral boundaries," countered the Verithil, her voice cool and measured. "And our seers have determined that excessive mining in that region could destabilize the Dome further."
"Convenient that your 'seers' always vision what benefits the Verithil most," sneered the Arenya.
The Sangor representative, his dark skin adorned with intricate white tattoos that seemed to pulse with his agitation, interjected: "While you two bicker over rocks, my people bleed to maintain our protection rituals. The blood price rises with each new Dead Zone."
The Zhyren and Naruun representatives, traditionally allies, exchanged concerned glances. Their territories, rich in natural resources but poor in Shyrr deposits, depended on trade agreements that were increasingly threatened by the growing tensions.
Taking the floor, Thomis raised his voice:
"All races know the value of Shyrr. And the new Dead Zones are compromising the flow of shipments. Not to mention the anomalous behavior of the Dome. This Council must approve an emergency alliance."
The silence that followed was broken only by the crackling of the crystal—harbinger of decisions that would shape the destiny of all.
Rael Olkhar, current regent and uncle to the young Karel, observed the proceedings with a carefully neutral expression. As a Pentadon with five awakened gifts, he possessed significant influence, yet even he could feel the Olkhar's traditional mediating power waning. Where once the other races had respected the Olkhar's balanced perspective, now they increasingly viewed them as weakened and irrelevant.
His thoughts turned to his nephew, soon to undergo the Awakening ceremony. The boy showed promise—perhaps more than any Olkhar in generations. If the prophecies were true... but no, such thoughts were dangerous. Too many eyes watched the Olkhar royal family already, seeking any sign of the Bearer's emergence.
For now, Rael needed to focus on the immediate crisis: maintaining enough unity among the races to address the proliferation of Dead Zones while investigating their true cause. Because despite what many on the Council believed, Rael suspected these were not natural occurrences but deliberate attacks—the opening moves in a game whose stakes were nothing less than the fate of the Dome itself.