Tharolis, one of the rare Pentadons still alive, knew well the weight of this burden. Each gift was a blessing, but also a challenge. The energies, sometimes antagonistic, required constant balance. The more gifts, the greater the load—and yet, this was the core of Olkhar identity. When a young person awakened only one gift, they became closer to the other races than to their own. Many, therefore, chose to migrate. Even though they were not fully accepted by the other races, who saw them as diluted versions of their lineages.
Even so, many preferred this reality to silent dishonor.
The decline of the Olkhar was more than just a matter of pride—it represented na existential threat to the balance of power in Inhevaen. As the traditional mediators between the seven races, the Olkhar's waning influence had coincided with increasing tensions and conflicts. Some scholars at the University of Ny'theras had begun to theorize that the Olkhar's connection to the Dome was fundamental to its stability—that their decline and the increasing appearance of Dead Zones might be causally linked.
Karel stood in the center of the circle, his eyes closed as instructed, feeling the vibrations of the obelisks penetrate his body. Unlike his companions, who shifted uncomfortably or gasped as the energies worked through them, he remained perfectly still, his breathing deep and measured. The resonance seemed to find no resistance in him—rather tan fighting the sensations, he surrendered to them completely.
Inside his mind, Karel experienced something unique. Where most initiates described the awakening as a series of distinct sensations corresponding to each gift, he perceived a harmonious whole—as if the different frequencies were notes in a complex chord rather than separate tones. The boundaries between the different types of magic blurred in his perception, revealing underlying connections that few had ever glimpsed.
As the ceremony reached its peak intensity, the elders exchanged concerned glances.
Karel's response was unusual—too calm, too integrated. Some whispered that it might indicate a particularly weak awakening, perhaps only a single gift manifesting with minimal strength. Others, including Tharolis, watched with growing interest, sensing that something unprecedented was occurring.
At the height of the tension, a tremor shook the mountain. A deep, profound sound echoed throughout the sealed world.
The roar that followed was deafening.
From the slopes and crevices rose stone creatures—Children of Silence. They took various forms: wolves, bears, falcons, rats, etc. Their eyes burning red, bodies slashed, a grotesque mixture of stone, flesh, and twisted vines.
"How is this possible?" shouted Tharolis. "These abominations inhabit only the Dead Zones! How did they get here without being detected?"
The Children of Silence were not merely monsters but manifestations of corrupted energy from beyond the Dome. Their very presence indicated a severe breach in the protective barriers that had kept Inhevaen safe for millennia. Each creature moved with unnatural coordination, suggesting a controlling intelligence behind their attack.
Most alarming was their appearance so far from any known Dead Zone. The mountain of Ilhyr was considered one of the most sacred and protected sites in all Olkhar territory, its defenses reinforced by generations of ritual magic and Shyrr deposits. For the Children to penetrate these defenses required either unprecedented power or intimate knowledge of the mountain's magical architecture.
He pointed the staff at the elders:
"Protect the young! The Awakening cannot be interrupted!"
The interruption of an Awakening ceremony was considered catastrophic in Olkhar culture. The delicate magical process, once begun, created a temporary vulnerability in the initiates' magical cores. If disrupted violently, it could result in permanent damage to their ability to channel magical energies—or worse, create unstable connections that might lead to uncontrolled magical discharges or even death.
Elders of the words of power took the first step forward, eyes closed, rhythmic breathing.
Their mouths began to move in unison, intoning verbal runes that reverberated in the air like ancient bells. The words appeared like living embers before their foreheads, drawing symbols in space with the liquid glow of magic. These glyphs danced among themselves, intertwining in an ethereal web that enveloped the initiates with a shimmering shield, firm as crystal, but vibrant as living skin.
Behind the shield, the young people who had already awakened instinctively retreated.
Some pressed their arms against their chests, trying to contain the trembling. Others stared at the elders as if expecting salvation. They knew what was approaching: the Children of Silence were not just beasts—they were horrors molded by stone, rotting magic, and chaos. And they came in waves.
Outside, the remaining elders divided. Some formed a new containment line, while others had already launched into combat.
Tharolis raised the ancestral staff and closed his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them, they were completely golden—there were no more irises, no pupils, only pure light. He channeled the gifts of three races simultaneously: the perception of the Verithil, the elemental control of the Zhyren, and the verbal power of the Sylarei. His body merged with the environment. He felt the electricity in the rock, the heat of blood, the flow of the breeze between the broken stones.
Tharolis's mind shaped the word: "Lightning."
The golden rune appeared on his forehead and exploded in a flash. Electrical currents serpentined through his body like snakes of light, and then leaped toward the battlefield. The air crackled with each discharge. Sparks opened craters among the Children of Silence, pushing them back—but only for moments.
To the left, a Sangor elder cut his own arm with a ceremonial dagger. The blood gushed in arcs and transformed into liquid silver thorns that fired in a straight line, piercing three creatures with a single gesture. His skin glowed with crimson runes that pulsed to the rhythm of his heart.
A group of Zhyren intoned deep chants, evoking stone walls that emerged from the ground. The rocks merged with whirlwinds of fire and jets of steam, creating elemental serpents that swallowed the creatures with roars of living lava.
On the flanks, Naruun elders appeared mounted on griffins and wolves. They charged like living shadows. Curved blades gleamed in their hands, guided by the howls of the Anirû that echoed among the peaks.
And then came the Arenya.
Giants among the elders, they advanced like living walls. Their skins became stone, and their muscles trembled with the accumulated strength of centuries of discipline. Each punch disintegrated a creature. One of them jumped on two wolf-shaped creatures, crushing them with his own weight and opening a crater where there had once been ground. The impact reverberated across the battlefield. Behind the shield, the young people retreated even further, terrified.
Tharolis spun the staff in a wide arc, channeling the air like a spear. The rune "Storm" appeared in his free hand. A vortex opened in the sky, and a column of wind descended like a divine arrow, dragging dozens of Children of Silence through the air, shattering them against the rocks.
But, even so... they kept coming.
"They don't stop..." murmured Tharolis, breathless. "As if they were summoned... and they throw themselves upon the altar like blind beasts. But why?"
The ground vibrated beneath his feet. The stones trembled like hurried hearts.
Something else was approaching—and it wasn't a creature.
While launching new beams of energy, his body shuddered. A sensation crawled up his neck like a spider made of ice. They were being watched. Not by common eyes. His hair stood on end. Each heartbeat was an alert response. He swept the battlefield with his golden perception.
Nothing.
But the sensation persisted.
Suddenly, one of the Corrupted exploded from the inside out—not by magic, but by something older.
Something pierced through Tharolis's electrical barrier. Even wrapped in lightning and elemental energy, the impact was brutal. Launched like a living arrow, it collided with the shield protecting the young people, which cracked with the shock. Upon touching the ground, he spat blood.
Breathless, he raised his eyes—and saw the impossible.
From the abdomen of the shattered creature, a black fissure tore the flesh from inside out. The creature's entrails writhed like living serpents, while the hole expanded, vomiting an unnatural energy that devoured all magical vibrations around it.
The fissure was unlike anything Tharolis had ever witnessed—a tear not just in physical reality but in the magical fabric that sustained Inhevaen. Through it emanated a cold, ancient presence that seemed to observe the ceremony with malevolent interest. The energy it exuded was the antithesis of the Dome's protective vibrations—chaotic, destructive, and fundamentally alien to the natural laws of their world.
Tharolis rose with difficulty. His body ached. His soul burned.
But he did not hesitate.
He knew the price. He knew the risk. He knew that activating all five gifts at once could kill him.
But it was that—or lose all the young people.
The Awakening could not be sacrificed.
Then, the sky exploded in sound.