Multiple Settings 𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐂𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐋 {OPEN}

[DreamRider1]

𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐂𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐋
A Fantasy Roleplay of Magic, War, and the End of the World


The Call to Adventure ​

Magic is dying. The world is unraveling. The Hollow Sovereign, an ancient force of entropy and destruction, has begun to wake from its prison, and with its return, the very essence of magic is fading.

Dragons grow weak, unicorns vanish into dust, and enchanted lands turn barren.
The sky itself fractures, revealing rifts into an abyss beyond mortal comprehension.

But there is hope.

Long ago, the Hollow Sovereign was sealed away by an ancient power—one that has been lost to time. Now, a fragment of that power has been found:
The Heart of Aether, a crystalline relic pulsing with untamed energy.

The problem? It rests in the fortified kingdom of Varkath, whose tyrant emperor refuses to relinquish it. He seeks to wield its power for conquest, unaware that his greed may doom the world faster.

Thus begins a perilous journey:
A quest to steal the relic, uncover the secrets of the ancient seal, and banish the Hollow Sovereign before all is lost. But the path is fraught with danger—rival factions, monstrous creatures, and whispers of a fanatical cult that would rather see the world burn.

Are you a hero, a mercenary, a scholar, or a wanderer? Will you fight for the world, or claim its last power for yourself?
The journey begins now.

The World of Veyndralis ​

A single vast realm filled with diverse landscapes, each home to different cultures, creatures, and secrets.

Floating Isles of Sylvaria
Home of the Aetherborn (Fae with Wings), sky-dwellers who rely on Aether Streams for flight and magic. Their floating cities are dimming as magic fades, and they seek the relic to restore their power.

The Verdant Wilds
A sprawling rainforest kingdom where the Eldrin (Elves) live in harmony with the land. They fear the relic’s misuse and would rather see it hidden than wielded.

The Ebon Hollows
A vast underground cavern network, glowing with bioluminescent fungi and veins of fading magic. Home to the Duskforged, a hardy people who mine enchanted crystals and hold lost knowledge of the Hollow Sovereign’s first defeat.

The Eternal Blue
The endless seas where Merfolk and Sirens make their homes in coral cities and deep trenches. They believe the relic may be the key to reviving the last Sea Guardian Dragon.

The Obsidian Wastes
A land of volcanoes and scorched plains, home to the Skarn (Beastkin warriors). Their fire magic is fading, and they believe Varkath must be burned to the ground to reclaim the relic.

The Gilded Tyranny of Varkath
A ruthless empire ruled by Emperor Aldric Vaelor, the most powerful non-magical ruler in history. He hoards the Heart of Aether, using its power to fuel his war machines.

The Cursed Expanse
A dead land where magic is broken. Ghostly apparitions roam, and time itself warps in strange ways. Legends whisper that this is where the Hollow Sovereign’s prison lies.

The Quest & Roleplay Structure ​

This roleplay follows a structured but open-ended adventure with multiple challenges, betrayals, and mysteries.

Assemble a Diverse Party – Warriors, scholars, thieves, mages—each with a role to play.
Infiltrate Varkath – Steal the Heart of Aether from the emperor’s grasp.
Uncover Ancient Knowledge – Seek lost ruins, decipher forgotten texts, and learn how to use the relic before it’s too late.
Survive the Riftborn Cult – A fanatical sect that worships the Hollow Sovereign and seeks to shatter the relic instead of sealing it.
Confront the Hollow Sovereign – Travel to the Cursed Expanse, perform the sealing ritual, and face the entity itself before it devours reality.

Magic & Powers ​

Magic is elemental in nature. Every wielder can only harness one type, and its power has begun to fade.

The Seven Elements of Veyndralis:
Aether – Pure magic, now unstable.
Flame – Fire manipulation, once strong, now flickering.
Tide – Water-based magic, including healing.
Terra – Earth magic, communing with nature.
Zephyr – Wind and storm-based magic.
Umbral – Shadow manipulation and illusions.
Solaris – Light-based magic, radiant energy.

A forbidden eighth power, Void, belongs to the Hollow Sovereign alone.

Creatures & Beasts ​

Dragons – Once abundant, now nearly extinct.
Unicorns, Pegasi, and Winged Unicorns – Fading away, hunted by poachers.
Sea Serpents & Leviathans – Mysteriously vanishing.
Griffins & Phoenixes – Struggling to survive in a magic-starved world.
Voidspawn – Twisted horrors emerging from the Hollow Sovereign’s influence.

Playable Races & Factions ​

Choose your race, faction, and motivations for joining the quest.

Playable Races
Humans – Versatile, skilled in combat and strategy.
Elves (Eldrin, Duskforged) – Attuned to nature and magic.
Fae (Aetherborn) – Winged beings, highly magical.
Merfolk & Sirens – Masters of the seas, some with hypnotic voices.
Skarn (Beastkin) – Fierce warriors, partially elemental.
Gaelvari (Magic Tinkerers) – Masters of enchanted artifacts and technology.

Factions You Can Align With
The Relic Seekers – Those who want to seal the Hollow Sovereign and save magic.
The Empire of Varkath – Those who believe in keeping the relic for power.
The Riftborn Cult – Those who want to destroy the relic and welcome oblivion.

Rules & Guidelines ​

All of RP Nation's rules apply – These were created for a reason, so please go review them if you have yet to do so!

Minimum Post Length – Please write at least 5 sentences per character in your posts. Writer's block is understandable on occasion, but try to keep things engaging!

No God-Modding, Mini-Modding, or Powerplaying – Nobody likes it when someone controls other people's characters or when a character always has foresight!

No Perfect Characters – Flaws make characters interesting. Overpowered or "invincible" characters will not be allowed.

Character Ages – All characters must be 21 and up if human. Or adult age of whatever species they are.

Romance & Drama – Allowed and encouraged, but please don’t go overboard. Fades to black/time skips are required for mature content. Excessive cursing is also discouraged.

Respect Each Other – Be kind, don’t fight OOC, and do not ignore other players.

Character Limit – You may have as many characters as you can handle. This may be subject to change depending on the number of participants.

Forms & OOC Posts – Please post all character forms and out-of-character discussion in the Discussion Thread and Forms Thread.

Character Description Forms – If you’re not using an image, please include a detailed description of your character's appearance!

Most Important Rule: Have fun!

Final Words ​

The fate of Veyndralis is in your hands. Will you steal the relic, wield its power, or seal away the Hollow Sovereign for good?

Prepare your spells, sharpen your blades, and embark on a journey that will decide the world’s fate.
The quest for the Heart of Aether begins now.

 

[DreamRider1]

Vaerith Solastra – The Silver Phantom​

The air in the Sylvarian sparring ring was still, save for the whisper of wings and the steady hum of magic beneath the floating platforms. Sunlight fractured through the crystalline domes overhead, casting shifting patterns across the dueling space—a beauty lost on those locked in combat.

Vaerith moved like a shadow cast in moonlight—fluid, silent, inevitable. His opponent, another Aetherborn noble, circled warily, sweat beading along his brow. Fool. He was already losing.

A flick of Vaerith’s wrist, and his Aetherblade materialized, silver light rippling along its sleek edge. The other fae mirrored him, conjuring his own weapon—a slender rapier, glowing faint blue. A duel of equals, in theory.

In reality, there were no equals here.

His opponent struck first—predictable. A textbook lunge, meant to test defenses, not to kill. Vaerith sidestepped, effortless, like a breeze slipping between tree branches. He didn’t even bother to parry. The other fae adjusted, wings flaring as he attempted a follow-up strike, a diagonal slash aimed for Vaerith’s exposed ribs. Better. But still too slow.

Vaerith turned his blade and met the attack at the last possible moment. Not with force, but precision. A sharp twist, and his opponent’s weapon flew from his grasp, clattering against the stone floor. The duel should have ended there.

It didn’t.

His opponent scrambled backward, hands raised to conjure another weapon—too late. Vaerith was already moving. His wings snapped open, a blur of silver and violet as he surged forward. One smooth step, a shift of his grip, and the hilt of his Aetherblade slammed into the fae’s gut. The noble gasped, doubling over, his balance faltering.

Vaerith didn’t stop.

He swept his opponent’s legs out from under him, sending him crashing onto his back. A flicker of movement, and the tip of Vaerith’s blade hovered inches from his throat. No mercy. No hesitation. Just cold, calculated victory.

For a moment, silence. The faint, uneven rhythm of his opponent’s breath. The silver glow of Vaerith’s blade reflecting in wide, stunned eyes.

Then, Vaerith smiled.

Not kind. Not cruel. Something in between, unreadable, as if he found the entire thing amusing.

“You telegraph your attacks.” His voice was smooth, untouched by exertion. “A blade is not an extension of your arm. It is an extension of your will. A thought, carried forward.”

His opponent swallowed hard, wings trembling against the stone. “You—”

Vaerith leaned in slightly, just enough to press the blade closer. His opponent stilled.

“Fight like that against a real enemy,” Vaerith murmured, his voice low, almost conspiratorial, “and you’ll be dead before you ever draw breath to speak.”

Then, as if bored of the entire exchange, he withdrew his blade in one seamless motion. The fight was over. The lesson was given. And, as always, Vaerith had already moved on.

The applause that followed was polite, measured. The nobles watching from the elevated balconies of the Sylvarian dueling hall were too refined to openly gawk, but their whispers were unmistakable. Vaerith had won. Again. And not a single one of them looked surprised.

Vaerith flicked his wrist, and his Aetherblade dissipated into shimmering mist, vanishing as if it had never existed. He stepped back, offering his fallen opponent the barest incline of his head—acknowledgment, nothing more. Then, without another glance, he turned on his heel. The duel had been a distraction. The true game was about to begin.

“Lord Solastra,” a voice called from the grand archway at the edge of the hall. Regent Eryndor Velthas, one of the oldest of their kind.

Vaerith halted mid-stride, his expression betraying nothing. He had expected this. The weight of too many stares, the tension in the air thick as woven silk. He had felt it before the duel even began.

He pivoted smoothly and offered a bow—graceful, practiced, but just shallow enough to border on insolence.

“Regent Velthas,” Vaerith said, voice even. “To what do I owe the honor?”

The elder fae’s golden eyes flickered with restrained irritation at his lack of formality, but the Regent merely gestured for him to follow. No explanation. No pleasantries. Just an unspoken demand.

Interesting.

Vaerith fell into step beside him, the murmuring of the gathered nobles fading behind them.


---

The Gathering of the High Council​

They led him to the Celestial Chamber, an open-air council hall perched on one of Sylvaria’s highest floating isles. Crystalline spires stretched toward the sky, refracting the afternoon sun into brilliant arcs of color, but the gathering within was anything but beautiful.

Five of the highest-ranking nobles stood before him, each adorned in flowing robes embroidered with Aether sigils. Their expressions were grim, their usual regal confidence marred by something rare—concern.

Magic was dying, and they knew it.

Vaerith clasped his hands behind his back, his silver gaze sweeping the room. He did not bow this time. Let them come to him.

Regent Velthas stepped forward. “We will forgo unnecessary formalities, Lord Solastra. You are aware of the deterioration of magic. It has grown worse.”

A flicker of something dangerous danced behind Vaerith’s gaze, but his tone remained smooth. “So I’ve noticed.”

Velthas inhaled sharply, clearly irritated by his lack of urgency. Another noble—a woman with midnight wings and sapphire-tipped fingers, Lady Seraphine Myrris—took over.

“The Heart of Aether has been found,” she said. “We confirmed its location within Varkath’s Argent Bastion.”

Now, that was interesting.

Vaerith tilted his head slightly, eyes sharp with calculation. The relic that pulsed with the last echoes of magic’s power—the artifact that could restore balance, or unravel it completely—was in the hands of a tyrant.

And the nobles of Sylvaria were terrified.

“Then retrieve it,” Vaerith said smoothly. “Or are we to pretend that the great Aetherborn, guardians of magic, suddenly fear a mere mortal empire?”

Velthas’s jaw tightened, but Lady Myrris only exhaled, as if she had expected his arrogance. “The Empire is fortified, their forces growing stronger while ours weaken. The relic is being experimented on. If we do not act swiftly, we will lose our chance. Varkath will claim its power for war.”

A pause. A shift in the air.

Then, the Regent spoke the true reason for this meeting.

“We require someone to lead an expedition into enemy territory, retrieve the Heart of Aether, and ensure its use to restore the balance of magic.” Velthas’s golden eyes met Vaerith’s. “We require you.”

The request was a formality. It wasn’t a question.

Vaerith felt something cold and familiar coil in his chest.

So this was the move they had decided upon. Put a dagger in his hands, send him into the den of lions, and hope he returns victorious.

Smart.

Foolish, but smart.

A lesser man would have hesitated. A lesser man might have weighed his options. Vaerith simply smiled. Not warmth. Not kindness. Something sharper. Something knowing.

“You are asking me to commit treason,” he mused, folding his arms. “To infiltrate the most dangerous kingdom in Veyndralis, steal from a ruler who executes spies on sight, and bring back an artifact so powerful it could tear reality apart if misused.”

A long silence. The nobles said nothing.

Then, Vaerith’s smile deepened, slow and deliberate. Like a blade sliding back into its sheath, waiting to strike again.

“Well,” he said, turning on his heel, “how could I refuse?”


---

The Gathering of the Relic Seekers​

By nightfall, the summons had been sent.

Across Veyndralis, whispered messages passed through couriers, carried by enchanted birds, slipped into the hands of the desperate and the bold. The ones who would change the fate of magic.

 

[DreamRider1]

Liriel Nymara – The Ocean’s Lullaby​

The tides whispered of change long before the summons arrived.

Liriel sat atop the Pillar of Tides, a towering coral spire that jutted from the depths of the Eternal Blue, its surface glowing with bioluminescent light. The sea stretched endlessly around her, dark and fathomless, its once-vibrant pulse now sluggish, weak. Even the waves, which had once risen and fallen with song, were eerily still. The ocean was holding its breath.

She exhaled softly, fingers trailing through the salt-kissed air. She could hear it—the silence beneath the waves. The great sea guardians, the leviathans that once stirred the deep, had gone quiet. The call of the sirens, once carrying across endless waters, had turned hollow.

The ocean was dying.

A glimmer of movement caught her eye—a dark shape cutting through the water below. A sleek, luminescent sea creature emerged, its form part manta ray, part water dragon. Nerai, her bondmate.

In his mouth, he carried a sealed scroll—the wax bearing the Aetherborn sigil of Sylvaria.

Liriel’s heart tightened.

She took the message gently, her touch light but unshaking. The paper felt too dry in her hands, too foreign. She had spent her whole life beneath the waves, where words were carried on currents, where songs and gestures spoke louder than ink on parchment.

And yet, she knew what this was.

Unrolling the scroll, she read:

To those who still fight for the world that is fading,

The Heart of Aether has been found.

Magic is unraveling. The tides are stilling. The Hollow Sovereign’s whispers grow louder.

We seek those who have the strength, the wisdom, and the will to act.
A mission is being assembled—to retrieve the relic from Varkath, to ensure it does not fall into the hands of those who would break it, who would hasten the end.

This journey will not be easy. It may not be survivable. But if we do nothing, the world will fall to silence.

Come. The Relic Seekers gather in the lands above. The final battle for magic begins.

The words burned into her chest, heavy as the ocean itself.

She had felt this moment coming—had felt it in the sickened tides, in the missing songs, in the aching loneliness where once there had been life. And yet, seeing it written, seeing it called into being, made it all the more real.

Her fingers curled around the scroll, the salt wind lifting strands of her ocean-blue hair as she gazed out at the empty sea.

For years, she had searched for a way to restore the depths, to bring back the great creatures of the abyss, to stop the ocean from falling into an eternal hush. She had prayed to the currents, sung to the waves, begged the tides for answers.

This was the answer.

Liriel lifted her gaze to the horizon—toward the world above, where the landwalkers waged their wars, where relics were hoarded and kingdoms fell to greed. Where the last hope for magic lay in the hands of those brave—or foolish—enough to claim it.

She closed her eyes for a moment, pressing the scroll to her chest. The ocean had given her a task. And the ocean did not ask. It commanded.

When she turned, Nerai was already waiting, his luminous form casting ripples of blue light in the water below.

Liriel exhaled, steadying herself. Then, with one fluid motion, she dove from the coral spire, plunging into the depths, the summons held tightly in her grasp.

The journey had begun.

 

[Solarem]

Aila Wranven, the Wingless​

Aila knew something was happening soon. She perched on top of Nessus, at the very top edge of the sparring dome, observing as Vaerith yet again defeated his opponent. She watched with indifference, as she had little care for the sparring matches, and instead scanned the crowd for a hint of what might be causing the aura of tension she felt. She spotted movement from the far doorway, and raised an eyebrow as Vaerith's path changed course. This was what she was looking for.

Urging Nessus, she took to the sky, following the envoy of nobility at a slight distance, though it was more of a formality than anything else. She knew that they were aware of her always observing from the edges. As long as she kept to herself, they didn't bother her. That was the unspoken arrangement.

She landed just outside of the Celestial Chamber, on the edge of the floating isle, just close enough to hear what was being said. A flicker of emotion passed through her as they announced they knew where the Heart was. The relic of legend, the final hope she carried of ever being whole. Aila waited as the meeting concluded, and steeled her nerves. She never asked for much, but she would ask for this. She needed to seek out the Heart of Aether.

 

[DreamRider1]

Vaerith & Aila – A Fractured Invitation​

The Celestial Chamber doors swung open, the golden latticework shimmering under the fractured light of the Aetherborn capital. Vaerith stepped out, his expression unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders was sharper than a blade.

His mind was already at work, weaving threads of strategy, considering the next move. The relic seekers had to be chosen carefully. Strong, capable, unquestioning. But there was one anomaly he had not accounted for—one loose thread he now found waiting for him on the edge of the floating isle.

Aila Wranven.

He barely concealed the flicker of disgust that crossed his face. The Wingless. The living omen of Aetherborn decline.

Even in the way she stood—small, thin, lesser—she was a quiet disgrace to their kind. The shimmer of her gossamer wing fragments caught the light, beautiful in theory, yet utterly useless. A reminder of failure. A reminder of the world as it crumbled.

And yet, he had watched her long enough to know that her presence was no accident. She lingered where others cast her out, observed where others dismissed. There was something about her silence that unnerved him. Something wrong.

His silver gaze swept over her, assessing, calculating. She had followed the summons. Of course, she had. The Heart of Aether was her last hope.

How tragic. How predictable.

But Vaerith had another reason to bring her. One he would not speak aloud.

He did not believe in coincidence. He did not believe in omens. But he did believe in patterns. And something about Aila Wranven’s existence—the brokenness of her wings, the way magic recoiled around her, the way her very presence seemed to unsettle the air—reminded him too much of the Hollow Sovereign’s whispers.

The relic seekers would need a scout.

And he would need someone to watch.

Vaerith’s expression shifted, his disgust melting into something smoother, something unreadable. The mask of diplomacy slipping into place.

---

“Aila Wranven.”

He spoke her name carefully, as if tasting the weight of it. He did not bow, nor did he offer any show of deference—she was beneath him, and they both knew it.

“A mission is being assembled. One that will determine the fate of magic itself.”

His tone was effortless, deliberate, woven with just enough intrigue to mask his true purpose.

“The Heart of Aether is no longer a myth. It is real. And I have been tasked with retrieving it.”

He paused, watching her for any sign of reaction.

“Perhaps you would be of use.”

The words were careful, distant. Not an offer of camaraderie. Not an extension of trust. A calculation. A test.

Vaerith tilted his head slightly, studying her with eyes that gleamed like molten silver.

“If you wish to seek the Heart, then prove yourself. Join the expedition.”

He did not tell her that he would be watching her every move. That he would ensure she never strayed too close to the heart of the unraveling. That if she was, indeed, a thread in the Hollow Sovereign’s grand design… he would be there to cut it.

Instead, he smiled. Cold. Smooth.

And he waited.

 

[Gigglecake]

The scrolls had a way of getting around - from guilds to mercenary companies to corner market stalls. So, it was unsurprising that it ended up in the hands of a few cultists. One such cultist was one Zekand Justabar or just "Zek" to his cultist friends. He'd been prescribing a remedy to someone for Mage's Cough when he overheard the news. It was good news. With the Heart of Aether found, the Riftborn could begin plans to seize it and break the seal on the Hollow Sovereign and finally allow for the death of the old world and the birth of the new world. It would have to be a team effort. Many were the hands that wanted to grab hold of the Heart. Everyone had to do their part.

Zek wanted to do his.

He received a copy of the scroll from a friend.

"The weave weakens, the pattern shifts," his friend said.

"And we shall guide its shape," Zek replied, giving a light bow.

Their voices were so low and airy as to barely be heard like the slightest breeze on a still day. It was all they said to each other. Yet, it made Zek feel like he belonged. He read over the scroll; his brow furrowed as the red and blue cracks in his skin *moved* underneath his robe and itched and splintered pain through his body. He tried to concentrate. The Relic Seekers were as predictable as ever it seemed.

His eyes scrolled down further.

*The Relic Seekers gather in the lands above. The final battle for magic begins.*

The Floating Isles of Sylvaria. He winced and not just from pain; though, that played a significant part. He was not exactly looking forward to.... being up there. He was used to living underground. In caverns. Not... in the open air. High above.

It was a daunting prospect. But the New World called to him. A world free from pain and suffering. It was surely worth the discomfort. He tucked the scroll into his pack and lifted it. He took his walking stick and headed out towards the horizon...

AFTER A JOURNEY...

Zek's knees were wobbling as he tried not to think about the fact that he was on a floating island. Or about the rumors that said floating islands were beginning to sink. (And why shouldn't they? It was unnatural, it was. Floating islands. Goodness.)

 

[Solarem]

Aila and Vaerith​

Aila watched as the High Council dispersed, and knew even before she saw him, who was coming to approach her. She could feel the ripples in Aether as he grew closer, though it did not lessen her surprise when Vaerith addressed her directly. She knew what the nobles and elder Aetherborn thought of her. Her own sky-like eyes met his, revealing nothing but a calm within her.

She prepared to make a case for herself, to defend why she should be allowed to seek the Heart, but her words died on her lips as the silver Aetherborn in front of her continued to speak.

At the invitation of joining the expedition, this time Aila was caught off guard, though she quickly regained her steady demeanor. She looked into Vaerith's eyes, seeing clearly the dislike he carried for her, along with something else. She couldn't quite place what it was, but there was more to his offer that he wasn't saying out loud.

Perhaps it didn't matter, nothing mattered much when there was a chance that they could recover the Heart of Aether. "Lord Solastra," she answered, inclining her head in deference. Her voice was soft, as always, but still carried clearly on the breeze. "You honor me with your invitation. I accept, and will accompany you on this quest," Aila said, her heart leaping even as she said it.

 

[DreamRider1]

Vaerith inclined his head in return, the movement precise, controlled—a gesture devoid of warmth but rich in calculation.

“Then it is settled,” he said smoothly, his voice carrying no hint of the contempt that lingered beneath the surface.

He did not believe in fate, yet there was something almost poetic about this—the Wingless chasing after a relic that could never truly make her whole.

Still, if she wished to follow, if she wished to cling to false hope, he would allow it.

He would watch.

He would learn.

And if the unraveling took root in her, if she was what he suspected—an omen, a tether to the Hollow Sovereign’s growing reach— then he would ensure that when the time came, she would be severed just as easily as a thread from a fraying tapestry.

“We leave when others arrive. Be ready.”

---

The skies above Sylvaria shimmered with fractured light, the floating isles drifting like silent sentinels against the endless blue. The air hummed with Aether currents, weaving unseen paths through the heavens, but Liriel arrived on her own terms—on the back of the sea.

Nerai soared upward, his luminescent form cutting through the shifting winds, his glide effortless despite the weight of his rider. Liriel sat poised atop him, the sea-silk of her garments fluttering in the turbulence, her ocean-blue hair streaming behind her like the tide reaching toward the shore.

As she crested the final ascent, Sylvaria came into full view—a breathtaking sprawl of crystal towers, cascading waterfalls suspended in midair, and bridges of pure Aether binding the islands together. It was beautiful, but beneath its elegance, the weight of dying magic was palpable.

She descended upon the Celestial Chambers, where a handful of figures had already gathered—some familiar, some unknown, all bound by the same purpose. The air was thick with unspoken tension, with expectancy.

Liriel exhaled softly as Nerai landed gracefully at the chamber’s edge, her gaze sweeping over those assembled.

The relic seekers had come. The final journey was about to begin.

---

Vaerith stood at the edge of the Celestial Chamber, the golden glow of Sylvaria’s fractured sky casting sharp highlights across his silver-white hair and cold, assessing gaze. He let the silence settle, let the gathered figures feel the weight of it, feel the presence of judgment before he even spoke.

Then, with the ease of someone who had already won whatever game was being played, he stepped forward.

" I see we’ve gathered the desperate, the ambitious, and the foolish," Vaerith said smoothly, his voice a blade honed to precision, cutting through the still air. He clasped his hands behind his back, his wings shifting slightly—a subtle reminder that he stood above them in more ways than one.

His silver eyes flickered over each of them, lingering just long enough to let them wonder whether they had already been deemed useful or disposable.

"I am Vaerith Solastra," he continued, his tone neither boastful nor humble—simply a statement of fact. "I have been tasked with retrieving the Heart of Aether, the last fragment of true power left in this unraveling world. This is not a journey for the weak, the sentimental, or the reckless."

He paused, tilting his head slightly, as if weighing each of them like a merchant appraising flawed goods.

"So tell me," he said, voice silk-soft and edged with quiet amusement, "what makes you believe you are worthy of this quest?"

 

[Solarem]

Aila sat, as always, atop Nessus, his gleaming golden fur and feathers a contrast to her own pale features. She lingered off to the side of the gathered crowd, accustomed to being on the edges and outskirts. It did not escape her that Vaerith seemed to always have one eye on her, regardless of where he was speaking, but she did not care. Not at the moment.

Instead she was observing those who had gathered in the Celestial Chamber, assessing each person as they stood and listened, gathering information already. She noted in particular the presence of a man whose skin appeared to be cracking apart. It seemed she was not the only broken one who sought a way to be made whole again. Aila wondered what skills he brought to the table, as he did not seem to be much sturdier than she was, which was a feat in itself.

When Vaerith's question was met with silence, Aila nudged Nessus and they stepped more clearly into the chamber. She met Vaerith's silver eyes unflinchingly, her expression unreadable. "Lord Solastra," she said, again inclining her head toward him. "I would ask you to be so kind as to enlighten me to what makes myself worthy of the invitation you have extended to me, broken as I am." Her voice was even and measured, betraying no hint of emotion, though behind her words was an edge of distrust. It was no secret what he thought of her.

 

[DreamRider1]

Vaerith held her gaze, his silver eyes betraying nothing—not the irritation at her challenge, nor the amusement that flickered beneath the surface. The Wingless had courage, at least. He could respect that much.

He let the silence stretch between them, watching her, weighing his words as though he were selecting the finest blade from a display of dull steel. When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth, deliberate, carrying just the faintest lilt of mock intrigue.

“An excellent question,” he mused, tilting his head as though truly considering it. “You are broken. That much is undeniable.”

His gaze flicked, briefly, to her ruined wings before returning to her face.

“But broken things are often overlooked. And overlooked things… are valuable in the right circumstances.”

He took a step forward, circling slightly, his tone casual—as if they were discussing strategy, not her very existence.

“You know what it means to be an outsider,” he continued, voice silk-soft but edged with something sharper. “You move through places where others would be turned away. You see what others dismiss. You listen because you know how to remain unheard.”

A pause. A measured breath.

“And when no one expects you to be a threat… you become something far more dangerous.”

Vaerith stopped before her, his expression unreadable, his wings folding neatly behind him.

“So you ask what makes you worthy? Perhaps nothing at all. Or perhaps it is the simple fact that while the rest of us will stand in the light, you—” he gestured subtly, “—are accustomed to the edges of it. And that may prove useful.”

Then, a flicker of something—a knowing smirk, a test, a dare.

“Unless, of course, you would rather prove me wrong.”

 

[Solarem]

Aila remained unmoving as Vaerith looked at her with the sharp gaze of a merchant, appraising how valuable goods were, how much he could gain from them. The language he used, as though she were merely an object rather than a person, was not unfamiliar to her, though she felt a slight sting of humiliation to be spoken about in such a way for an audience. Still, her expression stayed unreadable as she endured the sharp words.

She hadn't expected him to tell her his reasoning, not really. That would have been more surprising than the current circumstances. She recognized the test Vaerith was presenting to her, but this was no place for petty conflicts. Instead Aila merely bowed her head, dropping her gaze down his elegant form- really his outfits were unnecessary- to the marble floor glinting in the sunlight. "I suppose we will both see what use I will become," she replied, moving back to the edges of the group. If he wanted her to stay on the outskirts, then so be it.

 

[DreamRider1]

Vaerith turned his gaze to the siren. She was the last among them to arrive, yet she carried herself with the grace of someone who belonged anywhere the tides willed her to be. He studied her in silence for a moment, taking in the way her ocean-blue hair shimmered under the fractured Sylvarian light, the way the faint bioluminescent traces along her skin pulsed like the steady rhythm of the sea itself.

A siren. A creature of the deep, bound to tides and whispers.

His silver eyes flickered with something unreadable before he spoke.

“Liriel Nymara,” he said, voice smooth but edged with the same quiet scrutiny he had given the others. “You have traveled far from your waters to be here. I wonder—what is it that brings you to this quest? What claim do you have to the Heart of Aether?”

He tilted his head slightly, watching her, weighing her answer before it even left her lips.

“What do you have to offer that we cannot already find in those gathered before you?”

Liriel’s gaze did not falter. She stood poised, the light of Sylvaria dancing across her sea-silk garments, but beneath her beauty, there was an unmistakable weight—a sorrow, an urgency, something deeper than words could carry.

When she spoke, her voice was the voice of the tides—gentle, unwavering, powerful in its own right.

“The Eternal Blue is dying,” she said, and though her words were soft, they carried across the chamber like the pull of an unseen current. “The sea dragons no longer rise from the depths. The great leviathans have fallen silent. The currents that once roared with life now drift, still and empty, as if the ocean itself is holding its breath.”

She took a slow breath, and for a moment, the sound of the distant wind seemed to hush, as if listening.

“The Heart of Aether is not just a relic of legend. It is hope. If magic fades, the Eternal Blue will wither with it. The sea has always been more than water—it is a cradle of life, a pulse that beats beneath the world. If we do nothing, that pulse will stop. And I will not watch my home turn to silence.”

She met Vaerith’s gaze unflinchingly, her ocean-deep eyes unwavering. “You ask what I have to offer?”

The faintest hint of sorrow touched her expression, but her voice did not waver.

“I bring the call of the tides. The voice of the deep. And if I must fight to keep my waters alive, then I will.”

A siren’s song was not always meant to lure.

Sometimes, it was meant to save.

---

Liriel held Vaerith’s gaze for a moment longer, long enough for the weight of unspoken things to settle between them like the tide withdrawing from the shore. She had said what she needed to say. The cause was greater than them—greater than the past, greater than old wounds that had never been allowed to heal.

She did not wait for his approval.

Turning, she stepped away from the center of the chamber, the sea-silk of her garments catching in the gentle breeze. She would not let him see the way her fingers curled slightly at her sides, the way something coiled deep within her chest—something neither sorrow nor anger, but something far more fragile.

It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.

Her gaze swept the gathering until she found Aila Wranven, the Wingless, standing at the periphery as always. The girl was quiet, unobtrusive, watching with that keen gaze of hers—one that saw more than most gave her credit for.

Liriel approached with the ease of someone accustomed to drifting between people unnoticed, slipping past currents of conversation. When she reached Aila’s side, she exhaled softly, as if releasing something too heavy to carry.

“That went well, don’t you think?” she murmured, her voice wry but quiet, meant only for Aila to hear.

She did not look back at Vaerith.

She did not need to.

 

[Solarem]

Aila watched, unwavering as Vaerith singled out the siren among the group. She did not miss the way something else flickered beneath his expression as he looked at the woman. Interesting. She tucked that observation away, to be brought up at a later date. Though their exchange was civil, Aila could tell there was something more between them, though what it was, she couldn't say. Not yet anyway.

As the siren approached her, Aila turned her silent gaze directly to the woman, unsure what to expect. Her pale blue gaze landed on the siren's face. Liriel, Vaerith had said. She almost laughed in spite of herself at Liriel's comment, wondering what the siren knew of her.

"Any conversation with Lord Solastra that doesn't end in withering insults I consider to be a triumph," Aila replied, her voice equally soft. "I am Aila Wranven. Unsurprisingly he did not see it fit to introduce me."

 

[DreamRider1]

Liriel’s lips curved ever so slightly, not quite a smile, but something close enough to pass for one. She tilted her head, studying Aila with the same quiet curiosity the Aetherborn girl had no doubt turned on her just moments ago. Wingless, yet sharp-eyed. Overlooked, yet perceptive.

“Ah, but Lord Solastra is nothing if not consistent,” Liriel murmured, her voice carrying the smooth cadence of ocean waves lapping against the shore. “His words may cut, but silence? That’s where the true blade lies.”

She glanced back, just briefly, to where Vaerith still stood, composed, unreadable. The past did not show on his face. It never did.

Turning her gaze back to Aila, Liriel nodded, acknowledging the introduction.

“Liriel Nymara,” she said, the words carrying the weight of tides and distant shores. “Though you already knew that.”

A pause, and then, with a wry glint in her ocean-deep eyes, she added,

“It seems we are both things he would rather not acknowledge.”

For the first time since stepping foot in Sylvaria, Liriel felt something close to amusement.

---

Before Liriel could say more, before the unspoken weight between them could settle into something tangible, Vaerith’s voice cut through the chamber once more.

“Skarn,” he said, his silver gaze shifting toward the towering beastkin warrior. There was no hesitation, no trace of unease—only measured curiosity, laced with the same calculating edge that had marked all his inquiries thus far.

Vaerith studied him, his expression unreadable as his eyes traced over the battle-worn armor, the gleaming claws, the powerful stance that spoke of a lifetime of war. A creature of raw strength, of brutal efficiency. Yet, strength alone was not enough to earn a place on this quest.

“You fight for nothing but yourself,” Vaerith said, his tone smooth, neither insult nor praise. “Your people do not bow to magic, nor do they chase relics like desperate scholars.” He tilted his head slightly, as if considering a puzzle he had already solved but wished to hear confirmed.

“So tell me—why are you here? What claim do you have to the Heart of Aether, and what exactly do you intend to do should we find it?”

There was no hostility in his voice, but the weight of expectation was there all the same.

Varok huffed, a deep, guttural sound that rumbled in his chest like distant thunder. He had known this moment would come—the noble’s scrutiny, the carefully veiled challenge, the unspoken demand for justification. Aetherborn always needed a reason for things.

He stood his ground, towering and unmoving, golden eyes gleaming beneath his thick brow. “I fight for what remains when the dust settles,” he rumbled, voice like grinding stone. “You speak of claim as if the Heart belongs to any of us. It does not. It belongs to those strong enough to take it and wise enough to wield it.”

He flexed his claws absently, a subtle display of instinctive menace, though his expression did not shift. “Your kind hoard magic like starved kings hoard gold, afraid to lose what you barely understand. My people? We survive whether it fades or not. Magic is not what makes warriors—it is not what makes kings. But if this relic can tip the scales, then I will see with my own eyes who deserves it.”

A long, measured pause. His tail flicked once. “And if no one does… I will see to it that no fool wields it at all.”

The chamber was quiet for a moment. A test of words, of steel without drawing weapons.

Then, Vaerith exhaled slowly, the barest flicker of amusement passing through his silver gaze. Not a smile, not a sign of approval—only acknowledgment.

“A pragmatic answer,” he murmured, tipping his head slightly. “Unexpected, but not unwelcome.”

There was something smoother, sharper, more calculating in the way Vaerith looked at him now. Not just as a brute force to be wielded—but as a piece on the board, one that played by its own rules.

“Very well, then,” Vaerith continued, his tone almost idle. “Let us see what the world makes of you, Skarn.”

Varok snorted, a low sound, neither dismissive nor particularly interested in continuing the conversation further. He had no need to impress the Aetherborn lord. His strength would speak for itself when the time came.

---

With a low roll of his shoulders, he turned away, leaving the noble’s scrutiny behind him as he strode toward the edge of the gathering—toward the siren and the Wingless.

His sharp eyes flicked between them as he approached, noting the soft hush of their conversation, the way they had already gravitated to the periphery. The ones ignored, the ones underestimated.

His ears twitched.

“Your noble has a sharp tongue,” Varok rumbled in a low, almost amused voice, coming to stand just beside them. His golden eyes glinted with something between curiosity and quiet observation. “Tell me, does he ever use it for something other than reminding us we are beneath him?”

The words were spoken in jest, but there was an edge to them, a warrior’s wariness of playing games with those who thought themselves above the rest.

 

[Solarem]

Catching the movement in the periphery, Aila turned away from Liriel slightly to watch as Skarn approached them. She had not paid much attention to his exchange with Vaerith, as she had been conversing with Liriel, but she had heard enough to catch the slight challenge issued to Vaerith. That was enough for her to regard him with something slightly less than a guarded expression.

She was unused to being sought out for conversation, most Aetherborn acted as though she didn't exist. The Wingless girl shifted imperceptibly, almost uncomfortable with the attention that was on her. Nevertheless, her blue eyes met the beastkin's golden ones, a warm contrast to Vaerith's silver, but she found them no less calculating.

"I'm afraid I cannot answer that," Aila responded smoothly. "He is far from the only one to use such words about me. Broken. Truthfully, worse has been said."

 

[DreamRider1]

Liriel’s gaze softened as she studied Aila, the faintest frown forming on her lips. She had seen this before—this quiet resignation, this acceptance of cruelty as though it were something ordinary, something inevitable. And it sat heavy in her chest, an ache too familiar to ignore.

“You are not broken,” Liriel said gently, her voice like the hush of waves upon the shore. “They may say so, but that does not make it truth.” She tilted her head slightly, her ocean-blue eyes searching Aila’s face for something unspoken. “The tides do not listen to the opinions of the land-dwellers. Neither should you.”

She let the words settle, offering the Aetherborn girl a small, knowing smile before stepping back, giving her space to either accept or dismiss the comfort offered.

Varok, however, was less delicate.

The Skarn snorted, the deep rumble of his amusement a stark contrast to Liriel’s warmth. His golden eyes gleamed, not with pity, but with something far sharper—expectation.

“Then stop letting them say it,” he rumbled, arms crossing over his broad chest. “If Vaerith and the rest of his kind see you as weak, prove them wrong. Train. Fight. Make them choke on their own arrogance.”

He tilted his head slightly, tail flicking behind him. “Or, if you prefer, wait for the moment he least expects it—then strike him down in front of the rest of them. A lesson that words mean nothing when faced with strength.”

Varok’s expression remained unreadable for a moment longer before his lips pulled back into something like a grin, sharp-toothed, knowing.

“Or at the very least,” he added, a flicker of amusement in his tone, “punch him in the face. I’d pay to see that.”

 

[Solarem]

Words of comfort and support were not what Aila was used to hearing, and was not what she had anticipated receiving from these two. She studied both of them, taking in the subtle power that radiated from both of them, though it was two vastly different types of power. She wondered if they knew of the auras that surrounded them in a way she knew was not mirrored in her.

The Wingless was silent for a moment, considering both of their words. Skarn meant well, but he did not know the line she walked. The moment she lifted a hand against Vaerith, or any Aetherborn, would be the moment she confirmed that she was what they feared. She kept her face unreadable, beyond offering a polite smile. "I will keep that in mind, but I think violence will not give me any advantages."

Her gaze drifted over to Liriel. The siren had recognized something in Aila, she was not unfamiliar to the way the girl felt. "It is not the land-dwellers who think poorly of me," she commented, a slight bitterness to her words. "But if the tides believe differently, maybe I could learn to listen."

 

[DreamRider1]

Liriel’s expression softened, a quiet understanding settling into her features. She knew this feeling—the weight of expectation, of judgment pressed upon someone before they ever had the chance to define themselves. The tides had whispered to her long before she had learned to listen, and when she had, she had found her place among them.

She let the silence stretch just long enough to give weight to Aila’s words before she responded, her voice as gentle as the waves lapping against the shore.

“The tides do not care for bloodlines or birthright,” Liriel said, her ocean-deep eyes meeting Aila’s unflinchingly. “They do not measure worth by wings or magic, by name or history. They rise, they fall, they endure.”

She tilted her head slightly, watching Aila with something warm but knowing, a quiet certainty woven into her words. “Perhaps the Aetherborn see you as a warning of what’s to come. But I see you as something else entirely.”

A pause, as if debating whether to say the next words aloud. Then, finally:

“I see someone still standing, despite it all.”

Her lips curved just slightly, not in amusement, not in pity—but in something far deeper.

“And that is worth listening to.”

---

Varok let out a low huff, not quite a laugh but something close, something rough and edged with approval. His golden eyes flicked between Liriel and Aila, studying them both—two forces shaped by the world’s cruelty, yet standing in defiance of it in their own ways.

“She speaks like a true child of the sea,” he rumbled, his voice a deep growl of satisfaction. “Soft words that cut like tide-worn stone.” He tilted his head slightly, regarding Aila with the same unwavering intensity as before. “And she’s right.”

He shifted his weight, arms crossing over his broad chest. “You are still standing. That is more than can be said for most. But listening to the tides is one thing—learning to make them move for you is another.” His gaze sharpened, not with mockery, but with something firm, something solid. “No one here will give you an advantage, girl. You take it.”

His tail flicked once, a slow, deliberate movement. “Violence is not always the answer,” he admitted, glancing briefly at Liriel before returning his gaze to Aila. “But strength is. And strength does not always mean lifting a blade.”

He leaned in slightly, the weight of his words heavier than his presence. “Vaerith and his kind think you are beneath them. Let them.” A pause. A knowing smirk. “Then remind them why underestimating you was their first mistake.”

With that, he stepped back, satisfied, letting his words settle as he watched, waited—wondering if Aila would choose to heed them.

 

[Solarem]

Aila found herself at a loss for words. A silence stretched out between the three of them as the Wingless tried to process the words that were being given to her. She dropped her gaze away from the other two, to the familiar golden feathers of Nessus under her fingers. Her grip tightened ever so slightly as she tried to maintain her calm exterior.

These two people before her knew almost nothing about her, and yet were extending more kindness to her than anyone had before. Aila returned her gaze to them, and despite her best efforts, emotion flickered behind her eyes. Gratitude, perhaps. A hint of sorrow.

"You know, then," she said to Liriel. "You know of me and what the Aetherborn think I am." It wasn't a question. Though she hadn't specified, Liriel had said enough. "You know what Lord Solastra believes of me, and you are still choosing to encourage me?"

Aila desperately tried to keep her voice even, but despite her best efforts, there were cracks in her shield. Disbelief, and a slight bit of distrust. No one wanted anything to do with her. No one.

 

[DreamRider1]

Liriel did not look away, did not shift uncomfortably beneath the quiet storm that flickered behind Aila’s gaze. She had seen this before—the way pain masked itself as skepticism, the way isolation taught someone to brace for rejection even when kindness was offered freely.

She understood it.

And because she understood it, she met Aila’s uncertainty with nothing but quiet certainty of her own.

“I know,” she admitted softly, her voice steady but laced with something gentler than pity, something deeper than mere reassurance. “I know what the Aetherborn say. I know what Vaerith believes. And I still choose to stand here, speaking to you as I would to any other who walks this path beside me.”

She exhaled slowly, allowing the words to settle before continuing.

“I am not like the others of the Eternal Blue. Most of my kind do not look to the sky, nor do they care for what happens beyond the tides. But I have seen more than they have. I have listened. I have watched. And I have learned that the world is not as simple as those who rule it would have us believe.”

She tilted her head slightly, her ocean-deep eyes warm but searching, as if waiting to see whether Aila would accept her words or cast them aside.

“Vaerith may see you as broken, an omen, an aberration. But what do I see?” Liriel let a small, knowing smile touch her lips. “I see a woman who does not bow under the weight of their judgment. And if there is anything I trust, Aila Wranven, it is those who do not break when the world tells them they should.”

She took a half step closer, lowering her voice, as if sharing something meant only for them.

“I will not ask you to trust me—not yet. But know this.” She met Aila’s gaze without hesitation, her voice as unwavering as the tides. “I do not offer words I do not mean. You are here. You are standing. And that is enough for me.”

Then, a slight tilt of her head, a shift back to something softer, something welcoming.

“If you wish to walk alone, I will not stop you.” Her lips curved slightly, just enough to turn the words from solemn to inviting. “But if you ever tire of it, know that I will not turn you away.”

 

[Solarem]

Aila let out a shaky exhale, feeling as if a burden was being lifted from her. She would not be left alone to Vaerith's scorn, he would not be able to influence them to see her the way the rest of her people saw her. "It is difficult to break something that was created broken," she said softly, but there was something more under her words that hadn't been there before. Liriel and Varok had given her something that she'd never had before. They had seen her. Behind her pale blue eyes was growing the seed of confidence. It was hardly more than an idea, but it was planted all the same.

Aila cast a glance over toward Vaerith and the remainder of their group, knowing that their conversation was not going unnoticed by the other Aetherborn. But she found herself not caring in that moment. Her quiet gaze fell back upon Liriel and Varok. Her faint golden hair shimmered softly under the light of the dome. "I..." her voice trailed off, as she realized she didn't know what to say. "It would be an honor to walk with you."

 

[DreamRider1]

Liriel’s lips curved into something small but genuine, not a smirk, not amusement—just warmth. The kind of warmth that came not from grand declarations, but from something steady, something real.

“Then walk with us,” she said simply, as if it had never been in question. As if the choice had already been made, and Aila had always belonged here, even if she had never realized it before.

Varok gave a low huff, the kind that could have been approval, satisfaction, or something close to amusement. He dipped his head slightly, golden eyes flickering over Aila as if taking her measure once more, before giving a sharp nod.

“Good,” he rumbled, his voice like distant thunder. “Let them think what they will. The only thing that matters is what you do next.”

---

Vaerith’s gaze flicked briefly to the side, his silver eyes catching the movement at the periphery of the chamber. Liriel. The Skarn. And, of course, Aila.

He did not linger. To linger would be to acknowledge.

Instead, he turned his focus elsewhere, letting their conversation slip past him as though it were of no consequence. It was easier that way. Easier to pretend that he had no interest in whatever soft words Liriel was offering, no care for the way the Wingless seemed to draw attention despite the very world trying to erase her.

It was not his concern.

And yet, he noted it all the same.

The way Liriel stood beside Aila, the way the siren’s expression—so familiar, so once-known—held a quiet understanding. The way the Skarn, of all creatures, had taken a stance beside them, as if the three of them belonged to something separate, something unspoken yet forming.

Vaerith chose not to react. To acknowledge them would be to acknowledge her.

And Aila Wranven did not deserve that.

---

Vaerith’s gaze drifted to the next figure among them, his silver eyes settling on the stranger clad in goldenrod. He studied him in silence, a quiet, methodical dissection—not out of curiosity, but out of necessity. The man was unfamiliar, his presence unaccounted for, and Vaerith did not deal in unknowns.

Vaerith exhaled, a slow, measured breath, before speaking.

“I do not believe we have been introduced.”

His voice was smooth, absent of warmth, yet edged with unmistakable scrutiny.

“And yet, here you stand among those called to retrieve the Heart of Aether.”

His wings shifted slightly, a subtle, calculated movement—not a threat, but a reminder of who held authority in these halls.

“You are neither Aetherborn nor familiar to me,” he continued, each word precise, as if turning a blade in his hands. “So tell me, then—who are you, and what exactly do you seek on this journey?”

A pause. Just long enough for doubt to settle, for the weight of his question to take root.

“And more importantly,” his silver gaze flickered, cold and unreadable, “why should I trust you?”

 

[Gigglecake]

Zek was trying to pay attention to the proceedings. Trying. It was difficult while his condition was ravaging his body in a painful flare-up. Sweat dripped down his brow. Truth be told, he was exhausted. It had taken a lot of work to find someone with a tamed enough flying beast to get him up to the isle, and more work besides to pay off the man. He'd wanted to intercede in Vaerith's, the defacto leader, and the broken-winged woman's tiff. It'd seemed counterproductive to him for such arguments to occur, and he was not one who liked arguments.

Vaerith moved on - focusing on a Skarn next.

Zek could barely hear the words. His eardrums were pounding. He felt a little faint. Keep it together. He needed to keep it together. He took deep breaths. His palms glowed lightly with magic as he cast a healing spell on himself - something to ease the pain. It was no cure. Just a temporary and very mild relief of a significant symptom.

Then, Vaerith's eyes fell on him. Zek straightened as though he were a soldier in a line-up in front of a sergeant.

"Oh," Zek said softly. He gave a weak little wave and a smile. "Hello! I'm Zekand Justabar. But my friends call me Zek."

He looked at Vaerith hopefully. From what he'd seen of the man so far, he had some thought that making friends would be... well, difficult, but... Hope springs eternal. "No, sir, uh, Vaerith, right? I'm Duskforged. A healer. I traveled rather far to be here. Yep. Not a short trip. All the way up here. In the sky."

He barely suppressed a shudder. Great. He had to remind himself. "Well, the Heart of Aether plays a very important role for the future of... well, everything, doesn't it? So, I guess you could say I seek the future."

He was quite proud of himself for that. He'd rehearsed several times before coming up there what he was going to say if he was asked why he was joining the quest for the Heart of Aether. He was a little more taken aback by the question about trust. Did... did he seem untrustworthy? Did Vaerith know something he wasn't saying?

"I, well-" Zek started to stammer. Then, he shook his head. "Well, why should anyone trust anyone? At some point, you have to. Most things cannot be accomplished off by your lonesome. It takes a team effort. People working together - whether that's in a group like this or as individuals working towards a common goal. I disagree with what you said earlier about sentimentality by the way. I don't think it would get in the way of an important quest like this one. Rather, I feel it would only accelerate us towards our common goal. Sentimentality isn't a weakness; it's strength."

His Mushmouse, Mushi, peeked from out of the collar of his robes. Zek scratched her chin before returning his gaze to Vaerith. He flinched a little under the sharpness of Vaerith's gaze. "I mean, helping one another brings out the best in each other. It encourages us to do better. To do our best. Without sentimentality, you leave - well, you leave a lot of important things behind."

 

[DreamRider1]

Vaerith listened to Zekand’s rambling with thinly veiled impatience, silver eyes unreadable as he took in the Duskforged’s every word—the nervous energy, the barely concealed pain, the way he seemed both utterly out of place yet determined to remain.

He did not interrupt. He let the healer say his piece, waiting with the stillness of a predator who knew the exact moment to strike.

Then, when Zek finished—flinching slightly under his scrutiny—Vaerith exhaled, slow and deliberate.

“Sentimentality is a luxury,” he said coolly. “One that gets people killed when it clouds their judgment.” His wings shifted slightly, his tone neither mocking nor cruel—just absolute. “But if it will accelerate us toward our goal, as you claim… then prove it.”

He turned from Zekand without another word, his decision already made. Whether he trusted the Duskforged or not was irrelevant. He was here. And that meant he was useful—for now.

Vaerith cast his gaze over the gathered party, his wings extending slightly as if preparing for flight.

“We’ve wasted enough time,” he announced, voice cutting through the air like a blade. “You all came for the Heart of Aether, didn’t you? Then it’s time we get moving. The sooner we leave, the fewer eyes are on us.”

His expression was impassive, but there was a flicker of something behind his gaze—an urgency, a quiet impatience, as though lingering any longer might allow something, or someone, to slip through his grasp.

---

Liriel, standing at the periphery, watched the exchange in silence. Her ocean-deep eyes flicked between Vaerith and Zekand, reading between the lines of what was said—and what wasn’t. She could see the healer’s exhaustion, the way his fingers trembled even as he tried to steady himself. She had seen many who masked their pain before, and she recognized the act well.

But now wasn’t the time to address it.

Instead, she stepped forward, placing herself just slightly closer to Zek than before—subtle, but deliberate. She said nothing, but her presence alone was a quiet reassurance.

---

Varok, on the other hand, made no attempt to mask his amusement.

The Skarn huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, his golden eyes gleaming with something akin to approval—or maybe amusement.

“Finally,” he rumbled, rolling his shoulders. “I was beginning to think you liked hearing yourself talk.”

But despite the rough words, there was no malice behind them. He shot Zekand a brief glance, noting the healer’s wavering stance, the sweat on his brow—then, with a grunt, he reached into a pouch at his waist and tossed something small toward him.

“Eat that,” Varok said simply. “Dried emberroot. Helps with exhaustion. Won’t fix your problems, but it’ll keep you from passing out before we get anywhere.”

Then, he turned back to Vaerith, grinning in a way that bared just enough fang to be a challenge.

“Lead the way, then, noble. Let’s see if your plan keeps us alive.”

Vaerith caught the exchange between Varok and Zekand, his silver eyes narrowing ever so slightly. The Skarn’s casual defiance, the ridiculous display of camaraderie over weakness—it disgusted him.

His wings twitched as he turned back to face them, gaze settling on Zek with undisguised disdain.

“If you need a handful of dried roots to stay on your feet, you shouldn’t be here at all,” he said smoothly, his voice carrying no more weight than an idle observation. “We are not playing at heroics, nor are we carrying dead weight.”

His gaze flicked to Varok, unimpressed. “But I suppose some of us believe a battlefield is the place for charity.”

---

Varok snorted. He caught the sharp edge in Vaerith’s tone and shrugged it off like it was nothing, as though the noble’s opinion was worth less than the dust beneath his claws.

“If the healer dies before we get where we’re going, we all lose. Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out,” he rumbled, rolling his shoulders. “You can glare all you want, noble, but when you get yourself gutted, you’ll be grateful he’s around.”

His golden eyes gleamed with something unreadable—something like amusement, or maybe a warning.

“Unless you’re planning to cauterize your own wounds next time you take a hit?”

Vaerith’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t dignify the comment with a response.

But the tension had settled, crackling like the first sparks of a fire waiting to spread.

---

And that was when Liriel stepped in.

She sighed softly, stepping forward between them, her presence calm but deliberate.

“We haven’t even left yet, and you’re already looking to tear each other apart?” she mused, tilting her head ever so slightly, her voice smooth as the tide—but firm as stone beneath.

Her ocean-deep eyes flicked toward Vaerith, her expression unreadable. “You said it yourself—we have little time to waste. And yet, here we are, standing around arguing over whether someone deserves to be here instead of actually going.”

She turned, her gaze settling on Varok now, though it lacked the sharpness she had given Vaerith.

“I’m sure there will be plenty of time for you both to test your strength later, but right now? We need to be ready for the journey ahead.”

Then, she exhaled slowly, casting a brief glance around them, as if stalling—deliberate, careful, measured.

“And that includes making sure we aren’t leaving anyone behind.”

A pause. A subtle invitation.

She wasn’t looking at anyone in particular—but the moment stretched long enough to allow for any last arrivals.

---

Vaerith’s expression remained unchanged, but there was something cold in the way he watched her, as if reading into something left unspoken.

Then, after a long silence, he turned away.

“Make it quick,” he said, voice clipped, as if he had already wasted too much time on them. “I won’t wait forever.”

 

[Solarem]

Aila watched the exchange unfold in front of her, her keen gaze catching the way that Vaerith was already speaking down to the one other member who had a visible weakness. The one other person who was like her. She stepped out of the periphery toward the noble, a bolder move than she had ever dared, save for when she had intended to make a case to allow her on this very expedition. "I thought you had just said broken things were useful," she spoke up, her voice still soft, but carrying enough to ensure Zekander heard her attempt at support. She met the sharp eyes of the silver noble Aetherborn, as though searching for something.

"You worry about something, Lord Solastra?" Aila asked, her voice dropping to a lower volume. "I can feel it, an urgency, it's affecting the Aether around you." If Vaerith and the other Aetherborn wanted to fear her, then let them. Varok's advice rang in her head, show them they were wrong to doubt her. The Wingless's own wing fragments fluttered slightly as she offered him an innocent smile, her blue eyes fixed on his face. She turned away without another word, searching for the face of Liriel, as if to show the siren how she was already taking a stand.