Far above Dystyx, hidden within storm-cloaked skies, the ancient realm of Aether'Khal stirred.
Once the seat of Syrith Kaen Drexil's eternal kingdom, the floating continent had fallen silent since the king's death—its halls abandoned, its wings clipped by time, its engines of light dimmed to a soft, pulsing ache. Now, lightning cracked across its underbelly, not as wrath, but as awakening.
Syrith arrived atop the silver-skinned skybeast Kaelorath, its wings stretched wide like sails carved from thunderclouds. Averith stood behind him, her hands pressed to the beast's spine, channeling flame into its flight core. Roukhal flanked them, blade sheathed, but senses sharp.
As they crossed into Aether'Khal's airspace, a whisper passed through the wind.
"The fallen returns. The King with no tomb. The God with no grave."
The trio descended onto the landing dais of the Celestial Thronehall. Marble once brilliant had been dulled by moss and age; crystal pillars flickered with fractured light. Yet beneath the ruin lay unmistakable power—ancient, slumbering, patient.
Syrith stepped forward, voice like thunder in the hush. "I return not as the crowned tyrant I once was, but as one who walked the dirt as a pauper and bled among the forgotten. I return not to reclaim this realm, but to reignite it."
At his words, the ground beneath the dais trembled. Gears long frozen shifted with a groan of memory. Aether'Khal stirred like a beast waking from centuries of sleep.
Flames bloomed from Averith's palms, licking through the old throne's root-veins. "Its heart is intact," she whispered. "Sleeping, but intact. I can awaken it fully, but only if we bind it anew."
Roukhal stepped to a massive panel etched with celestial glyphs. "Then we begin the Binding Ritual. But we must be swift."
"Why?" Syrith asked.
Roukhal turned grim. "Because we are not the only ones who remembered this place. There are… echoes."
As if summoned, a rift tore across the chamber's edge—black as void, humming with unnatural hunger. From it stepped a figure cloaked in tattered gold and shadows. A voice like many woven into one whispered:
"You should not have returned, O King of Ash. The Throne remembers the betrayal. And so do we."
Averith flared her flames defensively. Roukhal drew his blade in one fluid, silent motion.
But Syrith did not flinch.
He stepped forward, cloak catching the wind, eyes glowing storm-bright.
"I was betrayed once. I died. I rose. I reclaimed my name. And if Aether'Khal remembers pain, then let it also remember justice. This realm is no longer yours to haunt."
The shadow figure raised a staff crackling with ancient corruption—but before it could strike, a ring of glyphs lit beneath Syrith's feet. The throne pulsed. The crystal veins surged.
The heart of Aether'Khal opened.
From deep within the realm's core, a voice—ancient and feminine, like starsong—resonated through the chamber:
"The Crownless God returns. Judgment shall fall not on the Reforged, but on the Unrepentant."
Aether'Khal's engines ignited, casting the floating city into full brilliance. The shadows shrieked and scattered, sucked back into their rift as light scorched the stone.
Syrith dropped to one knee, sweat tracing his brow. Averith knelt beside him, her flames dimmed but unwavering. Roukhal stood guard, ever the sentinel.
A new dawn broke over Aether'Khal—clean, radiant, and dangerous.
And in the sky above the floating realm, a constellation flickered into view: a broken crown wrapped in lightning.
A sign. A warning. And a promise.
The Reign of the Crownless God had only just begun.