The spire groaned again. Louder this time. Not just old stone settling under its own weight—no, something deeper stirred. Something alive in the bones of the place, shifting after centuries of silence. Dust trickled down in thin, slow threads from the cracked ribs of the vaulted ceiling.
Verek Solheim stepped into the wrecked court of Phokorus. Rain slicked his shoulders, his cloak dragging behind him like it didn't want to be there. He moved like someone who'd once held fire in his hands and still hadn't figured out how to handle the frost crawling under his skin now.
He said nothing at first. Didn't have to. His quiet filled the space louder than most men's yelling.
The guards near the throne shifted, sliding sideways, not retreating, but careful. Their armor clinked like they were trying to disappear in plain sight. That kind of nervous respect people give to saints gone mad—or gods still bleeding.
Ezreal waited at the ruined archway, arms crossed tight. The storm's cold caught behind his eyes, sharper than the wind outside. They held each other's gaze longer than either should have. Neither moved.
"You should be locked away," Ezreal said flat, no edge in his voice but all the weight of years.
Verek's voice had thickened lately, like gravel rolling slow down the belly of a collapsing mountain. "You still think the shards are the threat? You watch the fire, but you miss the smoke. They aren't the danger. They're just the latch. The thing inside the shards—that's what wakes when we pretend we know the game."
Ezreal's fists clenched tight, not raised, but holding something sharp inside. "You gave Malarath the first one. Don't pretend you're clean."
Something shifted between them—just the bare bones of a spell, muscles twitching on instinct. Verek didn't flinch. He walked past them slow, deliberate.
"I gave him nothing," Verek said. "He took it. I thought I could end this without more bodies in the dirt. That was the mistake."
Dax stepped in front, shoulders wide and braced like a rock waiting to hit back. His bracers were still stained with soot from the last fight. "So that's it? You show up now and we're supposed to forget what you let happen?"
Verek studied him. "You think I came for the shards?"
Caylen's voice cut in behind, dry as a fresh wound. "No. You came to make us use them."
That landed hard. Verek turned slow, eyes worn thin. They'd once been bright—hammered bronze and firelight. Now they looked rusted. Not dulled by time, but weighed down by seeing too much of what you can't stop, knowing it anyway.
"You think this is still a war," Verek said. "It isn't. It passed that months ago. What's out there isn't conquest. It's preparation. Torvald and his lot aren't coming to win. They want to break the latch from the outside."
Caylen folded his arms, his stance ready for a punch. "Then why the battering rams? The siege engines?"
"Because the egg isn't ready." Verek's voice softened, not gentle but ragged around the edges. "They feed it. Every soul that burns, every scream, every wall that falls—it turns the city into a ritual. The egg doesn't wake on its own. We're the ones waking it."
Ezreal blinked once, slow and tight. Then turned toward the vault door like it whispered secrets behind the stone.
The stone was warm. Not forge-hot, no sharp heat, but the kind of heat you get from a body breathing close in the dark, enough to fog your skin.
Verek stayed still.
"I'm not here to take anything," he said. "I came to offer the one thing Malarath can't control."
Tarrin stepped forward, robe torn and soaked from storms they hadn't seen. "You? The Morning Star? You leveled cities for less. And now we're supposed to believe you're the cure?"
Verek met his gaze. "No. I'm the blade he couldn't break. That's why I'm still standing."
Ezreal didn't look back. "Why now?"
"Because the rhythm changed." Verek stepped closer to the vault, close enough to feel the pulse beneath the stone. "It's syncing with the ley lines. You feel that hum? It's not noise. It's a countdown. Malarath's using the city like a tuning fork."
The silence that followed stretched thin, like a thread about to snap.
Caylen didn't move but his voice scraped the quiet like steel on brick. "Then tell us how to stop it. But if you lie—"
"I won't," Verek cut in. "If I do, you'll know. You always smell rot first."
Ezreal stepped back from the door, his boots heavy on the wet floor. "We use you. We don't trust you."
"I wouldn't either."
Dax made a low noise, a half-laugh that never made it to a smile. "This is the dumbest thing we've ever agreed to."
"Which," Caylen added, "says a lot."
Tarrin shifted his weight, looking between them all. "So what do we do?"
Ezreal faced Verek. "You said you could stop the sync. Show us."
Verek didn't hesitate. He pressed a palm to the stone, fingers spread wide. His eyes closed.
A faint light bloomed beneath his hand. Not fire or spark, but a thin shimmer, like cracked starlight leaking from a stone wall. It pulsed again.
And the warmth behind the vault faded, the rhythm slowing, stuttering for a moment.
Caylen sucked in a breath. "It's working."
Sweat beaded on Verek's brow. "Not for long. That cost me decades. If this holds, I'll need help."
Ezreal nodded. "Then we get you help. Dax—find Kaelith. If she's still standing, she'll know how to lock this down. Caylen, take Tarrin. Find every mage still breathing. Drunk or half-turned to salt, we need them casting."
"And you?" Dax asked.
Ezreal glanced at the vault. "I'm staying here. If the pulse shifts again, I want to know first."
Verek opened his eyes. "If it shifts again, it won't knock. It'll tear through every brick."
Ezreal didn't flinch. "Then we break it before it breaks us."
Caylen lingered, voice low. "If we pull the shards—"
"We scatter the lock," Verek said. "The egg might survive. But whatever's dreaming inside won't finish hatching."
"But if we botch it," Dax added, "we hand Malarath a god with teeth and no leash."
Verek said nothing.
The three turned and strode out fast, boots echoing against broken, rain-slicked tile.
Behind them, behind the thick steel sealed with runes, the egg waited. Its pulse had quieted—for now.
But the pause was not sleep.
It was listening.
It had learned something new.
It wanted more than blood this time.
It wanted belief. Will. Something deeper.
Worship.
Beyond the gutted city walls, past smoke and ash, another horn sounded.
Not Torvald's.
Not Ironcrag's.
Older.
Something else had heard the rhythm shift.
And it was coming.