In the Great Continent, behind seven arcades that only open when time falls silent, in a wing immersed in heavy stillness that no one enters, Empress Seralaine sat alone.
But she was not truly alone.
The shadows in that wing did not follow the light, but breathed from another presence... deeper than life, older than power.
She sat in silence, in a long robe that touched the floor as if it had been poured from her, neither glowing nor darkening, but concealing all meaning.
Her eyes, vast as an undiscovered sky, gazed upward... not at stars, but at the void nestled between moment and shift—where things begin to form without being perceived.
Then, footsteps emerged.
Without doors opening or air stirring the curtains, her parents appeared.
They did not enter as ghosts, nor as humans—but as a living memory that materializes when the present proves insufficient.
The ancient Emperor stood, draped in a robe woven from threads not belonging to this world, on the side of the chamber, and behind him his wife—the Empress Mother, the one of whom it was said: to look into her eyes was to see your final years.
Seralaine did not bow.
And they did not ask her to.
The father looked at her, and his voice did not rise, but seeped into the bones:
"Everything in this world moves toward a single point... and you are nearing it."
She looked at him steadily, though her heart—that thing she had never fully denied—gave a cold tremor.
"I no longer need the old plans," she said with a neutral tone. "The world is already being reordered."
The mother smiled, a smile without warmth or cruelty.
"The world is being reordered, yes... but not on its own."
The Emperor stepped forward, walked to the edge of the high balcony, and pointed toward the horizon, where no city could be seen, only thick mist whispering secrets yet untold.
"There... the earth will open once more. As it did in the beginning, when we came from before history, and taught this world how to stand."
He fell silent, then turned back to her.
"But we did not complete the path. You must be the one to finish it."
"And what awaits there?" Seralaine asked.
"Evolution," the father answered, "but at a cost."
"What cost?"
It was the Empress Mother who replied this time, her voice like silence at its most intense:
"Every evolution... devours your former self. It takes from you so you may give. It breaks you to remake you. And those who do not change... are erased."
Seralaine walked toward the balcony, beside her father, and looked out into the same mist.
"And must I drag my people behind me? Open a door for them that I do not know what lies beyond?"
"You are not the one opening it," said the King. "It opens to you."
"And you," added the Queen, "if you are unprepared, will be the first to fall when it opens."
The three fell into silence.
On the horizon, the mist seemed to stir... not by wind, but as if preparing to lift from something still forming.
The father finally spoke:
"The kingdoms that built their glory on purity shall collapse. Pure blood... is not a shield, but a curse, unless it is broken."
He turned to his daughter, gazing long into her eyes.
"Prepare yourself, Seralaine. Not as Empress... but as our continuation."
"The world we see... is not the last. Merely a shell. And the depths await those brave enough to dive."
He stepped back.
"When the time comes... we will not call you."
"But we will know... if you are ready."
The Empress knew that what was coming would not resemble anything that had passed.
And that she... despite all she had known, had not yet begun.
She stepped slowly toward the balcony overlooking the valleys drowned in mist, and her eyes searched through the clouds, as if seeking a shadow unseen. The wind passed through the halls of her towering palace without daring to touch her, and behind her, the presence of her parents lingered in the ether—not as ghosts past... but as something yet to be fulfilled.
Her mother's voice whispered from behind—not from the mouth, but from somewhere deeper:
"What has passed is only the sheath. The sword has not yet been drawn. It is not enough to rule, Seralaine. You must be the bridge."
She did not turn. She did not ask. But her spirit trembled—not from fear, but from the vastness of meaning.
The father continued, his voice like an echo tapping the palace walls rather than her ears:
"The fold will come, as it came before... but this time, not from above nor below. From within. From the seeds we all planted when we believed what we built would endure."
She placed her hand on the stone railing, made of rock quarried only from the hearts of extinguished stars, and breathed slowly. For a moment, she saw the world as never before—not realms, continents, and strings controlled from afar... but a single fabric, tearing itself so that it might be born anew.
The mother whispered:
"Those who crossed from the First World did not cross in vain. They left the opening, and sealed the scar. But every scar... carries a promise that it will open again."
The father said slowly, as one declaring something never to be repeated:
"The next world is not a gate. It is an ascent. And whoever tries to touch it without letting go... will be crushed."
At that, Seralaine finally turned to them. She looked at their faces—those forms unchanged for millennia, where time itself knelt at their feet. In them was no human tenderness, no cruelty. Only clarity. Clarity sharper than a blade.
At last, she spoke, her voice unlike her own, as if rehearsing the articulation of what is to come:
"When?"
The mother replied:
"When you hear the voices in your bones, not the air. When the silence of the walls deepens until you hear what lies beneath them."
The father said:
"When time is no longer linear, but coils around you, as the throne coils around one unworthy."
Then they fell silent.
And slowly, their forms dissolved—not bodies, but manifestations. Leaving her alone, before the stretching sky, contemplating what had yet to be written.
She returned inside. Passed between columns and mirrors that reflected nothing. In the depths of her palace, she walked toward the sealed hall—the one whose doors only open when she chooses to vacate her place as a ruler… and enter as something else.
And in a moment, just before the doors shut behind her, she thought:
"What my father taught me… what my mother planted… is not a crown. It is a calling. And the calling... has come."
---
On the far edges of the continent, where imperial messengers take months to arrive…
An old shepherd lifted his head from among his sheep, as if silence had poured from the sky onto him directly. He could neither read nor pronounce noble names... but he felt something. Something greater than the mountain cold.
"Winter came early..." he muttered, lowering his head again, while the sheep stood frozen, as if hearing something unspeakable with him.
---
In the depths of Khyma's vast library, where forbidden scrolls are kept...
The blind seer bent over paper not written in ink, but congealed light.
"The turning has begun..." she said to no one who could hear.
Then one of the scrolls fell from the top shelf and unfurled by itself... revealing a single line:
When the ancient stone shudders, the shadow loses its name.
---
In the fortress of Anzar, stronghold of warrior kings, fortified by iron silence...
The High General sat in seclusion, having spoken to no one in years. But that night… he opened his eyes and said:
"The throne has spoken."
His knights froze at the door, unsure whether it was an omen... or a summons.
---
In the southern fields, among simple folk unaware of what occurs behind high walls...
A little girl stopped playing and looked up at the sky, where for seconds a blue vortex appeared—visible only to her.
"Mom..." she said.
"Yes?"
"Something strange is breathing above us."
The mother laughed.
But the air was heavy... as if something held its breath and prepared.
---
In the Eastern Throne Hall, where the seven kings usually gather to consult…
The central seat was empty… no one had sat upon it in centuries. But now, it moved—slowly.
And the crowns of the kings turned on their own… toward the palace of Nurazym.
No one spoke.
Because they all… heard the same words.
The Empress still stood in the shadows, where even light dared not enter without permission. Behind her, nothing could be heard but the breathing of time. Before her, the Great Continent stretched with its secrets, castles, temples, children and kings, dreams, and its fear of forgetting.
She raised her hand—not with the slowness of monarchs… but with the certainty of the first lineage.
And with a single gesture, she opened the seven windows of the ruling palace, unopened for hundreds of years.
From them, echoes emerged—whether voices, thoughts, or commands beyond comprehension was unclear. But they reached…
The castles. The temples. The nameless mountains. The lands drowned in light and mire. The bloodlines that believed their era eternal. The seven kings… and beyond them, the waiting.
The message arrived—not as words, but certainty:
"Prepare."
"The time of waiting has ended.
What shall open... will not close.
And those who do not change...
will turn to dust."
And in the sky, the stars trembled for a moment, as if making space for something on its way.
Something without a name… yet.
But the entire world...
Felt its steps.