The morning after the gate stabilized felt like the world had taken its first real breath in centuries.
Elara woke before dawn in their shared tent, Thorne's arm heavy across her waist, his breathing slow and steady. The air inside was warm from their bodies, but outside the canvas walls, the crater's chill seeped through. She lay still for a moment, listening to the faint hum of the gate—steady now, no longer stuttering like a heart in arrhythmia.
Aeloria's absence ached like a missing limb. She had held her daughter one last time before leaving, pressing kisses to soft curls, whispering promises she prayed she could keep. Thorne had done the same, voice rough with emotion he rarely let show. "We'll come back to you," he'd told the baby, as if she could understand.
Now, lying here with him, Elara wondered if they would.
Thorne stirred, eyes opening immediately—always alert, even in sleep. "You're thinking too loud," he murmured, voice thick with morning.
She rolled to face him, forehead touching his. "I'm thinking we might not come back."
He didn't argue. Just pulled her closer, lips brushing hers in a kiss that tasted like goodbye and promise at the same time. "Then we make sure the world is worth leaving behind."
They rose in silence, dressing quickly in the cold. Outside, the party was already stirring—campfires low, dragons circling high overhead, Mira checking supplies with the grim focus of someone who had seen too many journeys end badly.
Kael landed nearby, silver scales catching the first light. The gate is stable, but the pull is stronger. The beings wait on the other side.
Elara nodded. "Then we cross today."
No more delays.
The primary gate looked different in daylight—less menacing, more... expectant. The circular arch of unknown metal stood twenty feet tall, runes pulsing with slow, deliberate light. The crack they had stabilized had widened to a doorway just large enough for one person at a time. Beyond it, colors shifted in patterns that hurt to look at directly—auroras that moved like living things, suggesting vast space and movement.
The beings were visible now—tall, shifting forms of pure energy, neither solid nor transparent. They hovered just inside the gate, watching.
Elara stepped forward first, drum in hand. Thorne moved to follow, but she placed a hand on his chest.
"Not yet. Let me speak to them alone first."
His jaw tightened. "Elara—"
"Please."
He nodded once, sharp, but his eyes said everything: If anything happens, I will tear the veil apart to get to you.
She turned to the gate.
The moment she crossed the threshold, the world changed.
Sound vanished first—complete, absolute silence, not even her heartbeat audible. Then color flooded in—impossible hues, shades that had no name. The air tasted like lightning and old rain.
The beings drifted closer.
One extended what might have been a hand, and concepts poured into her mind: welcome, curiosity, warning, question.
You opened the way. Now you must understand what lies beyond.
Visions followed—worlds layered upon worlds, magic flowing freely from a source that had no name. Beings like them existed in every realm—guardians of balance, neither creators nor destroyers, but keepers. They had watched Eldoria's suppression and its recent awakening with interest.
But something had changed.
Imbalance grows. Not from your world alone. From all worlds. The veil weakens because the source is wounded.
Elara's heart clenched. "Wounded how?"
Betrayal. Long ago, some of your kind—humans, dragons, others—tried to control the source. They failed. The wound never healed. Now it festers.
The vision showed ancient beings—some human-like, some draconic, some other—attempting to harness the source's raw power. Catastrophe followed: worlds cracked, magic twisted, veils torn.
You have begun to heal your world's wound. Now you must heal the source, or all veils fall.
Elara felt the weight of it like a physical thing. "How?"
Cross fully. See. Understand. Then choose.
She looked back through the gate—saw Thorne watching, face pale, fists clenched. Mira, Kael, Nyx, the others—all waiting.
She turned back to the beings.
"Show me."
The crossing was instantaneous and eternal.
One moment she stood at the gate; the next, she was somewhere else.
A vast plain stretched in all directions—neither sky nor ground, just endless shifting light. The beings surrounded her, their forms more defined now: tall, luminous, with features that suggested both human and draconic ancestry.
One spoke directly—voice like wind through crystal.
We are the Keepers. We have existed since the first beat, the first note. We maintain the balance between worlds.
Elara swallowed. "The wound—show me."
They did.
A vision unfolded: the source itself—a massive, radiant orb at the center of everything. Once pure, it now pulsed with dark veins—dissonance and suppression intertwined, corruption spreading like rot.
Your world's suppression was but one cut. Others came before. The wound grows. Soon it will consume all.
Elara felt sick. "How do I heal it?"
You cannot alone. You must gather the fragments of the First Accord—pieces scattered across worlds when the betrayal happened. Only when all are reunited can the source be restored.
The Keepers showed her glimpses: fragments hidden in different realms, guarded by trials, protected by ancient beings.
Your world is the key. Your balance has begun the healing. But time is short.
Elara looked at them. "If I succeed, what happens?"
Balance returns. Magic flows freely. Worlds connect without destruction.
"And if I fail?"
All veils fall. All worlds bleed into one. Chaos. End.
The vision faded. She was back at the gate, the party staring at her with wide eyes.
Thorne rushed forward. "What happened?"
She took his hand, voice steady despite the tremor inside. "We have work to do. The source is wounded. We must heal it—or everything ends."
The silence that followed was heavier than any silence before.
Mira broke it. "How?"
Elara met every gaze. "We gather the fragments. Across worlds. We start today."
The party stood ready—not to fight, but to save.
But as they prepared to cross fully, a new sound echoed from beyond—dissonant, angry, and familiar.
Someone else had found the gate.
And they were not coming in peace.