Zaire's fingers hovered just above the old map, spread out across the chapel's stone table. Candlelight danced along the parchment, turning every crease and faded line into something golden and alive. Pins stabbed into the map marked sigil sites, and colored threads crisscrossed between zones of interest. Right at the center of it all, there it was, Northern Grove.
He let out a slow breath, eyes darting from pin to pin, mind racing through strategies, timelines, and all the threats lurking in the shadows. Then, without a warning, the air behind him split with a soundless crack.
The portal burst open just like that, a shimmering tear in reality, connecting places that shouldn't be connected. Zaire did not spin around. Instead, he shifted his weight, his shoulders tensing, every muscle ready for whatever was about to step through.
And then Sylen was there, his presence sharp and electric, pushing through the divide. He stood on the other side of the portal, somewhere colder, lonelier, a place that seemed to suck the warmth right out of the air.
Even through the portal, you could tell Sylen was rattled. His cloak hung crooked, and his jaw was clenched tight, like he was holding back something he didn't want to say.
"Let me guess," Zaire said, still focused on the map. "They're not exactly playing nice, are they?"
"No," Sylen shot back, stepping closer to the portal's shimmering edge. "They're singing to the dead."
That got Zaire's attention. He finally looked up, eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?"
Sylen's voice dropped, suddenly secretive. "I heard a melody. A woman's voice. And—" He hesitated, searching for the right words. "I swear I've heard it before. Not in this life, maybe in another. At first, I thought it was Esme, but it wasn't her."
The words hung between them, heavy and strange. Two warriors, separated by distance but pulled together by something bigger than either of them.
"What did you see exactly?" Zaire asked, his tone sharp but steady.
Sylen exhaled, then reached through the portal, his hand emerging into the candlelit chapel. He dropped a cracked piece of obsidian onto the map, a real object, passed between worlds.
"I saw an arch," Sylen said quietly. "It was buried in the Grove, covered in Elarien glyphs. Sealed with blood magic and it was Esme's blood."
Zaire's expression darkened, his fingers gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles went white.
"They're trying to wake it," he muttered.
Sylen nodded, his face grim. "The Order isn't just summoning power anymore. They're digging up memories, things that should've stayed buried."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was thick, almost suffocating.
Then Zaire straightened, resolve hardening in his eyes. "We need to warn Esme before this spirals out of control."
Sylen blinked, uncertainty flickering across his face. "But Zaire—she doesn't even know what she is, let alone what she can do."
"And that's exactly what they're counting on," Zaire replied, finally turning to face him fully. His voice was cold, but there was fire behind it, a promise that he wouldn't back down.
Across the glowing portal, Sylen met his gaze.
For a heartbeat, it was just the two of them; two warriors, two minds, standing on the edge of something vast and dangerous.
And deep down, they both knew, whatever was coming, it had already begun.
* * *