A pool lay at the center of the Ascension Palace''s courtyard, its shimmering surface casting a brilliant light that reflected off the white robes worn by Ama. She stood motionless, statuesque, her eyes closed as she murmured incantations. Her voice resonated through the chamber, a solemn hymn woven with power and purpose.


    Surrounding her, the honored hosts stood in a wide circle around the pool, each holding their staffs of authority. Their faces were solemn, their postures reverent. They had gathered here not merely as witnesses but as arbiters of truth, bound by their duty to attest to the crime committed against one of their own.


    Against the distant wall, Avanti stood, her expression heavy with unspoken thoughts. All eyes were fixed on the tranquil pool, its surface beginning to shimmer and ripple in response to Ama''s incantations. They awaited the vision it would reveal—the truth of what had befallen Azavan, a truth they were bound to recount and, if necessary, avenge.


    The tranquil pool began to roil and churn, its stillness giving way to violent waves, as though a storm had descended upon it. Ama''s hands moved swiftly, her gestures precise and deliberate. When the waves surged toward her like roaring beasts, arcane symbols materialized from her palms, striking the tumultuous waters and forcing them back.


    Then, in an instant, the chaos subsided. The shimmering liquid stilled, transforming into a flawless mirror.


    "By the power of the pale moon," Ama intoned, her voice commanding yet serene, "I command you to show me what happened to my daughter."


    Her eyes opened, glowing orbs of energy that pulsed with ethereal light, for through her eyes those there would witness what happened. Slowly, she began to descend into the pool. The water maintained its glass-like stillness as she submerged herself entirely.


    Her vision shifted, dreamlike and hazy, as though she had entered another realm—a plane similar to her own, yet inverted and alien. The haze lifted abruptly, clarity rushing in like air into a vacuum, and she found herself at her daughter''s palace.


    Azavan stood leaning against her steaming sword, her left arm broken and blood seeping from her side. Before her lay the grotesque remains of foul creatures, once her sisters, their corpses oozing black sludge. Behind her loomed a massive armored door. Another creature rushed at her, leaping through the air, its electrified tentacles snapping. With a speed born of desperation, Azavan raised her sword and bisected it mid-air. The creature''s blood hissed as it burned on her blade.


    Azavan turned, guided by instinct, her eye catching another abomination scaling the roof. It leapt to ambush her but realized too late it was falling directly onto her waiting blade. A red aura began to fill the room as the stone floor cracked, the protective seals of the sanctuary failing. The air grew heavy under the oppressive weight of the abomination that approached. "Azavan," a deep, resonant voice echoed, its power undeniable. "It is not you we wish to harm. I am here for the Heart of Dawn, not you. Hand it over, and the corruption will be purged from your domain."


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    Azavan spat out clumps of blood, her vision fading as she steadied herself. "Abomination," she hissed, her voice defiant. "Death is better than yielding to you."


    The voice did not respond with words. It didn''t need to. A molten spear flew toward Azavan. She dodged it, pivoting swiftly to block a second blow from the towering figure now in the room. "Galrung," she whispered, her tone filled with rage.


    Azavan struck at Galrung''s knee, her blade cutting deep. But he countered with a crushing blow to her temple that sent her into a pillar, shattering it. Galrung charged her again, his molten spear grazing her chest as she narrowly evaded a lethal thrust.


    She shifted her weight and retaliated, slicing cleanly through his extended arm. Galrung recoiled, dark liquid dripping from his wound, his flesh sizzling as her blessed blade seared and poisoned him. Yet, his wound began to heal almost instantly.


    Galrung smiled—a grotesque, broken grin—before bowing with slight mockery and amusement. Azavan charged him again, but he parried her strike, delivering a brutal headbutt before sweeping her feet out from under her with his spear.


    Feigning another thrust, Galrung grabbed her by the leg and hurled her into another pillar. The impact shook the room, and before Azavan could recover, his spear followed her, pinning her to the base of the shattered stone.


    She gasped as the burning weapon seared her chest. But even as her body screamed in agony, she refused to surrender. With trembling hands, she wrenched the spear free, the weapon disintegrating in her grasp. She collapsed to the ground, her chest heaving, but Galrung gave her no respite.


    He kicked her into the air, his massive fist sending her back to the floor, raining down a relentless barrage. Each strike widened the crater beneath her battered body.


    Ama watched helplessly from her ethereal plane, her heart breaking with every blow her daughter endured. She tried to breach the barrier between them, to intervene, but a powerful force repelled her. Desperation fueled her efforts, and she pushed harder, only to be forcefully pulled back into the pool she had entered.


    Avanti watched as the stillness of the pool shattered, ripples cascading outward like the echoes of an unseen storm. Ama ascended the pool, the silver liquid clinging to her robes in glimmering droplets that shimmered like fallen stars. Her face was a canvas of agony, etched with equal measures of pain and rage. Her glowing eyes, unyielding and resolute, scanned the room as she turned to face the honored hosts.


    For a moment, the chamber was silent, heavy with unspoken tension. The hosts conferred amongst themselves in hushed tones, their deliberations carried out with solemn gravity. Then, at last, Jol-Ik-Var, Host of the Stars, stepped forward. The sharp sound of his staff striking the edge of the pool reverberated through the room—a clear declaration of his agreement with Ama. One by one, the others followed. Vul Hagenta was next, his vote cast with the same decisive tap. Six of the seven hosts gave their assent, each strike of their staffs reinforcing the decision. Only Era Hild remained unmoved, her silence a defiant opposition.


    Without a word, she turned to leave, her refusal unmistakable. But Ama, consumed by her grief and anger, extended her will, her Essence reaching out to collide with Era Hild''s. The air between them carried an invisible tension as the opposing forces clashed. Overwhelmed by the sheer force of Ama''s Essence, Era Hild faltered. Reluctantly, she conceded, raising her staff and tapping it against the pool''s edge. The sound echoed, a final seal being placed on a grim decree. The act was complete. The Faithful of Lunaria were now at war, their cause sanctioned by the Celestial Council of the Hosts.