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The skies of Afterlight had turned gray.
Not the gray of rain or smoke, but the dull, heavy shade of exhaustion—the kind that blanketed everything in mere silence. For years, the provinces had been locked in an uneasy stalemate. The southern provinces had fallen to the Eclipse Dominion, their cities rebuilt into fortresses of shadowed glass. The north remained under the Council of Dawn, clinging to ideals of unity, even as hope decayed. Between them lay a wasteland—the Ashen Belt—where the air shimmered faintly with Ether residue, and no life endured for long.
From her balcony in the Citadel of Light, Lysara watched the border burn. Every night, without fail, a distant line of fire marked the horizon where the two worlds collided. Each flare meant another reactor sabotaged, another village erased, another fragment of Afterlight consumed by the struggle.
"Reports from the eastern front," said Commander Ryn, bowing stiffly as he entered. His armor was dented, scorched, and bloodstained. "The Dominion advanced another three kilometers past Veyra. Our forces are holding, but casualties are high."
Lysara did not turn. Her hands gripped the railing so tightly her knuckles blanched. "And the civilians?"
Ryn hesitated. "We evacuated as many as we could."
"As many," she repeated softly. "Not all."
Silence fell between them. Outside, lightning flashed—not from storms, but from Ether cannons discharging miles away. The sky rippled faintly, as if the very air were breaking apart.
The Ashen Reign had begun three years earlier, when the Dominion—led by the enigmatic Lord Varin—declared the Council obsolete. He had once been one of Lysara's own advisors, a brilliant Ether physicist and strategist. But when the Shattered Accord crumbled, Varin vanished. Months later, he resurfaced with an army that did not tire, soldiers enhanced with black Ether running through their veins, their eyes pale and lifeless.
He promised liberation from the Council's "false light." His followers called him The Restorer.
And for every city he burned, more people joined him.
Ryn spoke again, his voice low. "Our scouts report movement near the eastern fissure. The Dominion has begun excavation there."
Lysara's gaze flicked toward him. "Excavation? What could they—"
"The Fracture," Ryn interrupted grimly. "They're digging toward it."
The word hung in the air like a curse.
The Fracture—the same phenomenon that had birthed the first Ether centuries ago. Sealed after the Great Convergence, it was forbidden ground. Its depths still pulsed with raw, unstable energy—the kind that had nearly destroyed the world once.
If Varin reached it, he could tap into that energy directly. He could end the war in a single day—by ending the world itself.
Lysara straightened. "Send word to the Council. We're mobilizing every unit we have."
Ryn frowned. "We don't have enough troops left for a frontal defense. And the people are starving. Our reactors are failing—"
"Then we take the fight to him," she said sharply. "Before he awakens what should have stayed buried."
Ryn saluted, hesitated as if to speak, then turned and left.
Lysara stood alone.
She looked to the horizon again. The flickers of light from the Ashen Belt pulsed faintly, as if matching a heartbeat. The rhythm was slow, uneven, but familiar. She whispered under her breath, "Lucian… if you could see this now…"
Below, in the Citadel's lower levels, the Council debated endlessly. Scholars demanded preservation. Generals demanded annihilation. The people demanded peace. But no one had an answer for the inevitable truth—Afterlight was dying.
And in that decay, something ancient had begun to stir.
---
Far from the Citadel, deep within the Ashen Belt, the Dominion's armies labored under the shadow of colossal cranes and scorched machinery. Their torches burned blue-white, fueled by condensed Ether. The fissure before them yawned open like a wound in the earth—massive, bottomless, whispering in tones that no human throat could produce.
Lord Varin stood at its edge, cloak trailing behind him, his armor a mirror of obsidian and light. His face was pale, gaunt, eyes gleaming with the faint glow of infused Ether. Around his wrist pulsed a black shard—the last fragment of the original Fracture Core.
"Deeper," he said, his voice carrying over the roar of machinery. "We are close. I can feel the pulse."
His second-in-command, a tall woman with streaks of silver through her hair, approached cautiously. "My lord, the readings are unstable. If we proceed, we risk collapse. The energy beneath could—"
"Could what?" Varin turned to her, voice calm but sharp. "Destroy us? It already has. We are the survivors of a broken world, Commander. We merely refuse to pretend that light can fix what darkness birthed."
The woman bowed her head. "As you command."
Varin looked into the abyss. "Lucian believed unity could contain the fracture. He was wrong. The fracture was never meant to be contained. It was meant to evolve."
The air shimmered, and for a brief instant, something stirred within the fissure—a shape vast and formless, like a reflection of the stars themselves twisting into view. Varin smiled faintly. "Soon."
---
Three days later, the Council's armies arrived at the Ashen Belt.
Thousands of soldiers in armor of gleaming white marched beneath banners of gold and blue. Massive walkers strode beside them, powered by fusion cores salvaged from the last functioning reactors. The ground cracked beneath their feet, dust rising like smoke from a dying fire.
Ryn led the vanguard, his expression grim. "Positions ready. We move on my signal."
Above, airships circled, their shadows stretching long and thin across the scarred land. Lysara stood aboard the flagship Aurion, surrounded by maps and communication sigils. Her eyes were locked on the horizon—the black spire of Dominion machinery rising like a dagger in the heart of the world.
"Commander Ryn," she said through the link. "Do not engage until I give the order."
"Yes, High Sovereign," he replied. "But if they breach the core before—"
"They won't," she interrupted. "They can't."
But deep down, she wasn't sure.
The ground trembled.
A low hum began to fill the air, deep and rhythmic. The fissure ahead glowed faintly, the color of dying embers. The soldiers faltered, exchanging nervous glances. Some whispered prayers. Others tightened their grips on their weapons.
Then, with a roar like thunder, the ground split.
Pillars of dark light surged upward, striking the clouds, piercing through the fleet above. Ships shattered mid-air, raining fire across the plains. Men screamed. The fissure widened, swallowing entire divisions in one breath.
From the heart of the chaos, a single voice echoed through every mind—calm, resonant, divine.
"Afterlight… ends where it began."
Lysara stumbled back, clutching her head. "Varin… what have you done?"
On the horizon, the black spire cracked open, revealing a sphere of pure light suspended above it—a heart of raw Ether, pulsing in time with the planet itself. And within that sphere, a silhouette hovered—Varin, arms outstretched, fragments of the Fracture swirling around him.
Ryn's voice came through the link, hoarse and panicked. "He's merging with the Core! High Sovereign, what are your orders?"
Lysara looked up at the burning sky, her reflection caught in the glass of the command deck. "We stop him," she whispered. "No matter the cost."
She turned to her officers. "Prepare the Aegis Lance."
The officers froze. "But, my lady… that weapon could destabilize the entire region—"
"I know," she said coldly. "But if he reaches the heart, there will be no region left to save."
Outside, the clouds parted. The fissure blazed brighter, swallowing light itself. The armies below fought in chaos—blades clashing, Ether blasts colliding, screams lost in the storm.
Above it all, two forces stood poised on the edge of annihilation.
The light of Afterlight.
And the shadow of the Dominion.
The Ashen Reign reached its climax.
And in its fire, a new dawn—or a final dusk—waited to be born.
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