The Sacred Hall of Ceiala’s Grand Council Building was a masterpiece of divine craftsmanship. Its soaring ceiling stretched skyward, carved from flawless white stone veined with glowing crystal that pulsed faintly, as if alive with the heartbeat of the Realm itself. At its center, a grand skylight allowed rays of moonlight to cascade into the chamber, painting the polished floor in ethereal patterns. Towering columns lined the room, their surfaces etched with ancient runes that shimmered like whispers from the past. The air was thick with history, power, and the weight of monumental decisions.


    At the heart of the hall stood a massive curved table of polished white stone. Along its edge, the emblems of each tribe and nation of the Realm stood proudly etched. Tonight, the hall hosted its most influential leaders.


    Idris A’Valei—the Hydra Avatar—radiated calm authority. Lucius A’Damos—the Golem Avatar—loomed like a fortress, his hulking frame reinforced with dense bulging muscle. Shuri A’Mal—the Griffin Avatar—sat poised and alert, her amber eyes piercing as though she could strip away any pretense. Behind them stood their Sacryns, silent and vigilant. Opposite them sat the Sacred Council of Ceiala: Darius Durnan, Sade Valtari, and Dr. Jyro Zephyri. All bore expressions as sharp as blades.


    One seat, however, remained empty. The absence of the Phoenix Avatar, Kamari’s father—Kamon A’Taro—hung like a ghost, a quiet reminder of the loss still felt across the Realm.


    Darius Durnan’s commanding voice broke the silence. “Thank you all for coming. The matter before us cannot wait. The Incursions are growing—stronger, more frequent—and the Realm cannot sustain the strain much longer. If we fail to act decisively, chaos will swallow us whole.”


    His words pressed down on the room, and the murmur of the crystalline veins seemed to quicken as though echoing the urgency of the moment.


    Dr. Jyro leaned forward, the deep lines on his face casting shadows under the soft light. His long beard brushed his chest as he spoke. “My continued search for the Nether Flame has yielded no results. Typically, with such a sharp rise in Nether Energy, we’d detect some trace—a signature, a remnant, anything. But it’s as though the Flame has disappeared entirely, leaving no clue behind.”


    Ripples of unease spread through the room, and low murmurs rose like a distant storm.


    Sade Valtari, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, broke through the noise. “Then what of the Angel of Death? If we capture him, we could force the information from him.”


    Her suggestion barely hung in the air before Lucius A’Damos interrupted, his gravelly voice rumbling like thunder. “Capturing the demon?” He shook his head. “You may spend too much time with your head buried in scrolls to understand. The Angel of Death isn’t just powerful—he’s indomitable. Trying to capture him is nothing short of suicide.”


    “Indomitable, my ass,” Jermaine shot back. “I’d have caught him already if he wasn’t so damn slippery.”


    Dr. Jyro nodded. “Our best hope is to locate his hideout—wherever he’s been concealing himself all these years.”


    Sade’s scoff cut through the room like a whip. “And how exactly do we do that? You’ve just said we can’t track the Nether Flame. What leads do we have?”


    The chamber erupted into a heated debate. Voices clashed, rising and falling as each leader argued for a solution, frustration building like a storm.


    Then Elijah spoke, his voice cutting through the noise, half-joking but disarmingly sharp. "Why not Seliak? If I were hiding something no one should ever find, I’d pick the one place that kills anyone who sets foot on it."


    The room fell into stunned silence. Heads turned toward Elijah, disbelief and confusion etched into every face.


    “Seliak?” Shuri A’Mal’s voice dripped with skepticism as her piercing eyes fixed on him. “This is no time for childish quips, boy. Not even the Angel of Death could endure the Knull Energy that saturates that wasteland. Your suggestion is absurd.”


    Dr. Jyro’s brow furrowed, his fingers stroking his beard in thought. “Absurd, perhaps, but…” His voice trailed off, a glimmer of realization sparking in his eyes. “Unless…”


    All eyes turned to him as his voice grew more deliberate. “Jermaine can endure Seliak for short bursts because of his near-limitless Enre. Perhaps if the late Zion, through his experiments, somehow found a way to neutralize the effects of Knull Energy—perhaps by using the souls he collected over the century—it’s possible he built a sanctuary on Seliak to shield himself and the Nether Flame.”


    A heavy silence followed as the room absorbed the implications of his theory.


    Sade crossed her arms, her expression still skeptical. “Neutralizing Knull Energy? That’s madness. Even Jermaine couldn’t hold out for long on Seliak, and he’s the strongest of us. To sustain such protection for decades? Impossible.”


    Dr. Jyro’s voice didn’t waver. “Not entirely. Andre Fel’Norae managed something similar on a smaller scale. Using enhanced and concentrated Enre, he shielded himself temporarily from the effects of The Knull. If Zion somehow discovered and expanded on that principle…” He let the thought linger.


    Dr. Jyro’s gaze flicked to Elijah at the mention of Andre Fel’Norae. Jermaine caught the glance instantly, his glare locking onto the doctor. Beside him, Nia wrapped her arms protectively around Elijah, who remained silent, his eyes fixed on the marble floor.


    Darius sighed. "If what you''re suggesting is true, it changes everything."


    Byron stepped forward. “If Zaire is hiding on Seliak, Stormfront will lead the charge. We can’t afford to let this opportunity pass.”


    Dr. Jyro nodded. “It’s a risk—an immense one. But if Zaire is there, we must act.”


    “Then it’s decided." Byron’s eyes hardened. "We bring the fight to him.”


    <hr>


    After the Council adjourned and the Sacred Hall emptied, Elijah lingered near the edge of the room, keeping to the shadows. His thoughts were far from the present, caught in a loop of memories he’d tried for years to bury. The hum of the crystal veins and the faint whispers of runes etched into the pillars barely registered. He didn’t notice Dr. Jyro approaching until the old man’s footsteps stopped beside him.


    “Elijah,” Dr. Jyro began softly. “I’d like you to consider helping us with this effort.”


    Elijah tensed as his arms crossed over his chest in a defensive gesture. "I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he muttered, eyes fixed firmly on the polished floor.


    Dr. Jyro’s voice was gentle but insistent. “You understand Knull Energy better than anyone else. That knowledge could make the difference between success and failure. It’s something only you can provide.”


    The mention of Knull Energy hit Elijah like a physical blow. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white, and his jaw locked. The word stirred something raw and searing deep within him—a wound he thought he’d closed long ago but still throbbed with unrelenting pain. A tremor ran through him, subtle but unmistakable. For a moment, it felt as though the ground beneath his feet might give way. His body screamed at him to run, to flee from this conversation, from this place, from the past clawing its way to the surface.


    Dr. Jyro waited, giving Elijah the space he seemed to need, though the silence between them grew heavy.


    Finally, Elijah forced himself to speak, his voice tight and strained. “I’ll think about it. No promises.”


    He still didn’t look at Dr. Jyro, keeping his gaze fixed downward as if meeting the older man’s eyes would shatter the fragile control he clung to.


    Not far away, Imani had paused mid-step, her keen eyes catching the quiet exchange. Her brow furrowed slightly, curiosity flickering across her face. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then stopped. She could read the tension radiating from Elijah, the way his body was wound so tight it might snap. But she knew that it wasn’t the moment to ask questions.


    <hr>


    A few minutes later, Elijah and Imani stepped out of the Grand Council Building, the crisp night air brushing against their skin. Leon stood waiting near the entrance, wearing a radiate grin. He waved them over with unbridled enthusiasm.


    “There’s someone I want you to meet,” Leon said, his excitement almost infectious.


    Standing just beyond the doorway was a striking woman, nearly Leon’s height, with a confident stance that demanded attention. Her caramel-toned skin seemed to glow under the soft light of the surrounding crystal lamps, and her sharp yellow eyes sparkled with an undeniable intelligence. Her hair—a short, curly black mohawk streaked with yellow highlights—framed her face with bold elegance.


    “This,” Leon said with pride, “is Tanya A’rin. The Griffin Sacryn.”


    Tanya’s smile lit up as she stepped forward to greet them. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Elijah,” she said, her voice smooth. “But Imani, since you’re new to the squad, I haven’t heard much about you yet.”


    "Ah, the girlfriend." Elijah’s trademark grin slipped effortlessly into place. “Now I see why Leon’s always racing back to Kabora. Can’t blame him.”


    Tanya laughed softly, casting a knowing glance at Leon, who scratched the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “He did mention you’ve got a way with words,” she said. Her expression shifted slightly as she added, “But isn’t someone missing? Kamari, right?”


    The question caused a subtle shift in the group’s energy. Leon’s smile dimmed, and Elijah’s usual playfulness seemed to falter.


    “Yeah…” Leon said quietly. “Kamari’s recovering in Ahwahl right now.”


    Tanya’s brow furrowed with concern. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope he gets better soon.”  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    She leaned in and kissed Leon gently on the cheek before taking a step back. “I need to rejoin the Griffin Avatar. It was great meeting all of you.”


    As she walked away, Leon’s gaze followed her, his chest swelling with obvious pride. The faintest smile lingered on his lips, but before anyone could tease him, a commanding voice broke through the air.


    “Imani!”


    The group turned to see Idris A’Valei—the Hydra Avatar—approaching with his Sacryn, Demoi A’Rayn, a few steps behind. Idris was all warmth and presence, his smile as wide as his open arms. “It’s great to see you again,” he said, his voice carrying the soothing tone of a father greeting a long-lost child. “I’d hug you, but I respect your boundaries. How’s Ceiala treating you?”


    Imani returned his smile. “It’s been good. A bit eventful, but I’m adjusting.”


    Demoi, his arms crossed and expression far more combative, smirked as he gave her a light nudge on the shoulder. “Hope they’re not softening you up too much. If you get too comfortable, I’ll come back and whip you into shape again.”


    Imani smirked back. “No need to worry about that.”


    Idris chuckled, his deep laugh filling the space around them. “That’s good to hear. Take your time and learn what you can. We’ve got the Eldran Empire under control—for now. When you’re ready, we’ll need you back.”


    Imani nodded.


    With a final smile, Idris and Demoi took their leave, their figures fading into the deepening night.


    Elijah watched them go, his arms crossed, his brow furrowed in thought. “Who was that guy?” he asked. “He was a little too friendly if you ask me.”


    Leon elbowed him with a grin. “Jealous much?”


    “Hardly,” Elijah shot back. “I’m just... curious.”


    Imani’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “No, I think Leon’s right.”


    Leon folded his arms, his grin widening. “Definitely jealous.”


    Elijah groaned, throwing his hands up dramatically. “I’m not jealous! I’m just looking out for the squad, you know?”


    Imani chuckled, shaking her head. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”


    He narrowed his eyes at her in mock indignation, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his amusement. “Alright, laugh it up. Just for the record—I don’t get jealous. I’m just... thorough.”


    Leon rolled his eyes with exaggerated flair, and the three of them burst into laughter. Their voices echoed through the quiet night.


    <hr>


    In Ahwahl, Kamari jolted awake, his chest heaving as if he’d just resurfaced from the depth of an ocean. Sweat clung to his skin. His trembling hand raked through his damp hair, but the gesture did little to calm the storm inside. Shadows of his nightmares lingered—visions of Zaire, of failure, of the Phoenix Core slipping from his grasp.


    Throwing off the sheets, he quickly got dressed—his movements jerky, almost frantic. The room felt too small, its walls too close, the air stifling. He couldn’t stay inside any longer.


    The cool night air hit him like a balm as he stepped outside, but even that wasn’t enough to soothe the fire raging within. His boots crunched softly against the dirt path as he moved through the forest, each step pulling him farther from the suffocating confines of his room. But he found no peace in the night’s beauty.


    When he reached the lake, its glass-like surface reflected the moon and stars with haunting perfection. It was so still, so calm, it felt like the universe was mocking his inner chaos. He stared at his reflection, his face illuminated by the pale light. The man staring back disgusted him. He saw the shadows of his failures etched into every line, every faded scar.


    The serenity of the water snapped something inside him.


    With a roar, he raised his hands and unleashed a torrent of yellow flames. They shot out with fierce intensity, cutting through the stillness of the night. The fire slammed into the water, sending steam billowing into the air. The flames crackled and hissed, the sound grating against the quiet, but it wasn’t enough.


    “Why can’t I do this?!” His voice broke through the night.


    Zaire’s taunting voice echoed in his mind, a dark whisper that clawed at his thoughts.


    You’re too weak, Young Phoenix.


    Kamari’s teeth clenched, and a fresh surge of fire erupted from his hands. The flames roared hotter—wilder. His arms trembled under the strain, but still, he pushed harder. The lake''s edge boiled, and steam rose in thick clouds as the fire danced. But no matter how much power he poured into it, the blue flames eluded him.


    Images flooded his mind: the Red Massacre, the Phoenix Core ripped from his grasp, his parents’ faces, the lives he couldn’t save. Each failure weighed on him. They felt like impossibly heavy chains dragging him deeper into despair. His flames flickered, sputtering as his strength faltered.


    With one last burst of effort, Kamari hurled a fireball into the lake. The impact sent water splashing onto the shore. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the damp ground, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The ache in his muscles paled in comparison to the hollow ache in his chest. His fists clenched against the earth, his knuckles digging into the dirt. The silence that followed was deafening.


    Soft footsteps approached, rustling the grass. Kamari didn’t need to look up to know who it was.


    Malik stepped beside him, the glow of a small flask in his hand catching the moonlight. He crouched, holding it out. “Here.”


    Kamari took the flask, his hands trembling as he uncapped it and drank deeply. The cool water slid down his throat, but it did little to quench the fire inside.


    “So, this is where you ran off to,” Malik continued.


    Kamari stared out at the lake, his voice barely a whisper. “I keep trying... trying to push past it, to stop letting this failure define me. But every time I close my eyes, all I see is everything I’ve lost. Everything I couldn’t stop. And now, without the Core…” His voice cracked, trailing off into the night.


    Malik sat down beside him, letting the silence stretch. The only sounds were the gentle ripple of the lake and the faint rustle of leaves in the wind. Malik didn’t press, didn’t rush him. He simply waited.


    "I don''t know what to do," Kamari muttered.


    “Pushing yourself like this won’t get you where you need to be,” Malik said. “Frustration, anger... they burn out fast. Clear your mind. Find balance.”


    Kamari shook his head, his hands tightening into fists. “I’ve tried. I’ve tried to clear my mind—to stay calm, but it doesn’t work. Every time I close my eyes, I see Zaire’s hand ripping the Core from me. I was supposed to stop him!” His voice was bitter, thick with self-loathing. “Without the Core... what am I?”


    Malik sighed, his gaze steady. “You’re still you. The Core didn’t make you. Your strength, your fire—that comes from you. The Core was an extension of what was already there.” He paused, his voice softening. “Take a deep breath. Try again.”


    Kamari hesitated, the words gnawing at him. He stared at the lake, its surface shimmering under the moonlight. Finally, with a shaky inhale, he raised his hands, focusing on the flickering warmth that began to gather in his palms.


    Yellow flames sprang to life, their glow casting long shadows against the water. He closed his eyes, willing the fire to shift—to deepen, to transform. For a fleeting moment, he felt it—a spark of something more, a power that burned brighter and stronger than anything he’d ever felt before.


    But just as quickly as it came, it slipped away, vanishing like mist in the wind.


    Kamari’s brow furrowed, frustration bubbling to the surface. He tried again, pushing harder, but the flames sputtered and stayed yellow. “Why won’t it work?!” he shouted, hurling another wave of fire into the lake. The water hissed and bubbled, steam rising in thick clouds.


    His arms fell to his sides, trembling with exhaustion. Malik’s calm gaze lingered on him, which only worsened Kamari’s frustration. The advice, the reassurances—they all felt empty.


    Without warning, he exploded. “Fuck this!”


    He turned away from the lake, his steps heavy with defeat, and stomped off into the night, leaving Malik alone by the water.


    <hr>


    Somewhere in the Realm, an Infernal Rift loomed ominously over a small village, its swirling energy warping the air and casting grotesque shadows over the cobbled streets. Infernals of every kind—twisted goblins, hulking orcs, and shadowy beasts—rampaged through the town, their savage howls mingling with the terrified screams of the villagers. Fires raged uncontrollably, consuming homes and fields alike, as thick, acrid smoke blotted out the stars, suffocating the once-clear night sky.


    Amid the chaos stood Zion and Zaire, their silhouettes stark against the hellish inferno. At their feet lay the shattered bodies of fallen Seraphim warriors, their once-radiant armor dulled by blood and ash. Zion moved with an eerie calm, his gaze cutting through the battlefield. He stepped over the corpses, extending his hand toward those still clinging to life. With an almost reverent motion, he drew their souls from their broken bodies.


    But Zion’s demeanor was not cruel.


    “Your lives were not lived in vain,” he murmured.


    He knelt beside a dying woman, her wide eyes filled with terror. Placing a gentle hand on her chest, he whispered, “Your sacrifice will serve a greater purpose. The pain will pass, and peace will come.”


    Her body stilled, and her soul rose from her chest—a shimmering ball of green energy—before merging with the Rift above. Zion stood, his expression not of malice but of conviction, as though he bore the unbearable weight of what he deemed necessary. He moved to the next, repeating the ritual with quiet reverence, his presence more akin to a priest offering final rites than a ruthless destroyer.


    Zaire watched in silence, unease twisting in his gut. He had seen this countless times—the way Zion harvested souls with such grace, treating death as if it were a sacred art. Yet, no matter how often he witnessed it, it never failed to unnerve him. His father’s detachment in battle was expected, but this reverence for the dead... was too much.


    When the last soul was taken, Zion surveyed the ruined village. “We’re done here,” he said.


    Without another word, they vanished into the shadows, reappearing in the cold, cavernous lair. The dim chamber was illuminated only by the eerie green glow of the vats lining the walls. Within them, the captured souls swirled like liquid starlight, their energy pulsing faintly in the oppressive darkness.


    Zion''s gaze settled on the massive portal gate that loomed at the chamber’s far end. The room hummed as the collected souls funneled into the structure, feeding its growing power.


    “Three days,” Zion said. His eyes never left the flickering numbers on the control panel beside the Dakr. “Just three more days until the portal is activated.”


    Zaire lingered in the shadows, his sharp gaze fixed on his father. Before he could speak, Zion’s body suddenly tensed. His hand flew to his chest, his breath hitching sharply. The Nether Flame, its small, crackling form atop the Dakr, flared violently, its malevolent energy spreading through the room like a living shadow.


    Zion felt it—the insidious whisper of the Flame curling into his mind like smoke.


    Give in, Zion. You cannot resist me forever.


    Zion’s eyes glazed over, his body trembling as dark tendrils of corruption wormed through his thoughts. For a moment, his mind crumbled, leaving behind only a hollow shell, a puppet pulled by unseen strings. He turned to Zaire, and shadows spiraled around his fingers as his hand snapped forward.


    “Father?” Zaire shouted, barely dodging the first strike.


    Zion attacked again, his movements wild and unrelenting. Shadows lashed out, tearing through the chamber with ferocious force. His eyes—once sharp and calculating—were now black voids filled with the Flame’s insidious corruption.


    “Snap out of it!” Zaire’s voice trembled, desperation bleeding into his words as he parried another bone-crushing blow.


    Each strike seemed to shake the very foundation of the lair, the force threatening to tear apart everything they had built. Zaire’s mind raced as he fought to keep up, his fear mounting with every attack.


    This was his greatest nightmare made real.


    Memories flooded back: the day Zion became The Dark Lord, the day the Realm lost its most brilliant mind. Zaire could still see it, still hear the screams, still feel the terror of watching his father succumb to the Flame’s influence. He had been so young then, too young to understand the cost of power but old enough to know fear.


    Zaire clenched his jaw, his movements growing sharper as he fought back. “You can fight it, Father!”


    But Zion’s attacks grew fiercer, his strength fueled by the Flame’s corruption. Zaire’s breath hitched as he parried another blow, his mind screaming with the realization that his father was slipping—falling deeper into the abyss he had barely escaped decades ago.


    “No!” Zaire roared, summoning a Prime Crystal in a flash of radiant white light. Its glow pulsed with Prime Energy, filling the room with a warmth that pushed back against the shadows.


    He thrust the crystal against Zion’s chest, its light flaring as it poured divine energy into his father’s body.


    For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Then, slowly, the shadows began to retreat. Zion’s ragged breathing steadied, the black voids in his eyes clearing as his will fought back against the Flame’s grip.


    When the crystal’s light dimmed, Zion collapsed to his knees, sweat pouring down his face.


    “Are you… alright?” Zaire asked, his voice unsteady, the fear still clinging to every word.


    Zion looked up at him, his expression weary. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I won’t lose to it again. I swear… until my last breath, I’ll fight it.”


    Zaire’s chest tightened at his father’s words. He helped Zion to his feet, though his own legs felt shaky beneath him.


    “Three days,” Zion whispered, his hand trembling as he gripped Zaire’s shoulder. “Just three more days.”


    As Zaire led his father out of the chamber, a cold dread settled deep in his stomach. Three days might not be soon enough.