A final projection unfolded—this one not a mory, but a map.
A cosmic map.
Showing the locations of all remaining Primordial fragnts—seventeen in total—scattered across continents and eras.
Nysha stared. "Those places... they match old ruins, sealed tombs, so forbidden zones—"
"One of them," Lindarion said quietly, "is beneath Sylvarion."
Nysha froze.
Sylvarion.
Her holand.
Her responsibility.
Her voice went hoarse. "...Luneth’s at risk."
"And Maeven," Lindarion added.
Ashwing flapped frantically. "Okay nope nope nope—no more cosmic revelations, we’re done, I vote we go back to the forest and eat fruit forever—"
The cube’s glow intensified.
Then, without warning, it detached from Lindarion’s palm and lifted into the air.
Nysha grabbed her dagger. "What’s it doing now—?"
The cube split open one final ti.
A beam of light shot into Lindarion’s chest—clean, painless, like being touched by starlight.
Information flooded his mind again.
A duty.
A design.
A path.
The cube dimd, falling silent once more, floating only inches above the ground.
When Lindarion finally opened his eyes—gold burning with cosmic clarity—Nysha stepped back again on instinct.
"What did it show you?" she whispered.
Lindarion exhaled slowly.
"The truth behind my inheritance," he said quietly.
Ashwing held his breath.
"The Primordials didn’t just choose ."
A pause.
"They made ."
Nysha’s heart slamd in her chest.
"What?"
"I wasn’t born with dual affinity," Lindarion continued, voice steady. "I was engineered to carry it."
Ashwing squeaked, "ENGINEERED BY WHO—?"
Lindarion looked up at the ceiling.
At the stars he could no longer see.
"At the mont of my reincarnation."
Nysha’s pulse froze.
"The Primordials interfered directly," Lindarion said. "They shaped . Guided . And placed the Devourer’s dormant fragnt near Sylvarion twelve years ago."
Nysha’s breath trembled. "To awaken you?"
"No," he said quietly.
"To test if I could withstand what cos next."
Ashwing swallowed hard. "And what cos next?"
Lindarion looked at the cosmic map still hovering in the air.
"The beginning of the Fourth Primordial War."
And the ruins answered with a cold, ancient hum—as if approving the start of sothing terrible and inevitable.
The air in the ruin shifted—subtle at first, like a breath exhaled by stone, then heavier, denser, thickening with the pressure of imminent change. The cosmic map flickered above them, its seventeen points pulsing like heartbeats waiting for a command.
Nysha stepped closer to Lindarion—not out of fear, but because she felt the ground under her feet suddenly matter less than the decision being made in his mind.
"What do you an," she said quietly, "by the Fourth Primordial War?"
Lindarion didn’t answer imdiately.
Not because he hesitated.
But because he was listening—listening to sothing only he could hear. A resonance embedded beneath consciousness, like whispering vibrations carried through his bones.
He finally spoke, voice low but steady:
"The wars never ended, Nysha. They just shifted into different forms—through eras, through vessels, through choices. Every epoch thinks it’s safe because the Primordials vanished. But they didn’t. They scattered."
Ashwing fluttered nervously. "Well that’s comfortingly horrifying."
Nysha folded her arms. "And we’re now stuck in the middle of a cosmic custody battle."
Lindarion didn’t smile, but so faint shadow of amusent flickered behind his eyes.
"Sothing like that."
The cube pulsed again, sending a gentle ripple through the floor. The ruins themselves seed to stir in response—dust trembling, pillars resonating, runes faintly illuminating in hidden cracks.
Nysha looked around. "It’s waking up the entire complex."
"No," Lindarion said softly. "It’s warning us."
A beat.
Nysha straightened. "Warning us of what?"
"The first fragnt among the seventeen," he said. "It’s already moving."
Ashwing’s wings shot straight up. "FRAGNT OF WHAT?"
"Of a Primordial’s will," Lindarion replied. "A shard of their consciousness. Their directive. Each one contains enough power to bend fate on a regional scale or awaken sothing long-buried."
Nysha stared at the floating map. "Do you know which one moved?"
Lindarion reached toward one of the glowing points—the one farthest east, pulsing with a slow, ominous rhythm.
"Suthrael Ridge," he said.
Nysha swore. Ashwing recoiled. The na alone carried a weight—nightmarish legends, war remnants, land warped by sothing ancient during the last Era’s collapse.
Nysha steadied herself. "What kind of shard is it?"
Lindarion’s gaze sharpened.
"...Consumption-aligned."
Ashwing flopped onto the ground. "WE ARE DOOD—"
"Calm down," Nysha snapped.
"I can’t! The last ti a consumption shard activated, a whole valley turned into mana-starved waste for two centuries—"
Lindarion touched Ashwing’s head gently.
"It’s not fully awakened," he said. "But sothing is trying to force it."
Nysha caught the implication instantly. "...Soone found it."
"Or soone followed its resonance," Lindarion said. "So people can sense Primordial fragnts without understanding what they are. Cultists. Void-worshippers. Old devotees. Even certain mages with unstable affinity."
"Or worse," Nysha muttered, "soone who knows exactly what it is."
Lindarion’s silence was the confirmation she didn’t want.
The cube flickered again, dimming almost wearily—as though it had spent the last of its energy awakening the ruins and sharing its ssage. It drifted downward, settling beside Lindarion’s foot like a dormant ember.
Nysha eyed it. "Is it...dead?"
"Sleeping," Lindarion murmured. "These constructs don’t die. They cycle. It will wake again when we reach the next fragnt."
Ashwing squinted at it. "So... cosmic GPS with trauma."
Nysha exhaled sharply. "So what now?"
Lindarion turned toward the exit tunnel—toward the path that led out of the ruins and back to daylight, to their world, to an era unaware it was teetering on the edge of an ancient conflict reborn.
"We go to Suthrael Ridge."
Nysha nodded imdiately. "Then we prepare for travel."
Ashwing fluttered after them as they walked, the ruin humming faintly behind them like a slumbering beast.
But before they reached the outer corridor, Lindarion stopped.
Nysha halted beside him. "What is it?"
He spoke quietly. "The cube didn’t show everything."
Nysha’s breath hitched. "...What did it hide?"
Lindarion looked ahead with a tired, newly ancient expression.
"The fragnts aren’t just locations," he said. "They’re... choices."
Ashwing blinked. "Choices?"
"Each Primordial shard," Lindarion said softly, "resonates with a different outco for the universe. If all seventeen awaken, they converge into a singular event—a mont where one being chooses the fate of the Devourer."
Nysha felt her chest tighten. "You."
"Yes."
Ashwing’s tail thumped as he realized the implication. "You’re... the deciding vote in a cosmic rebalancing?"
Lindarion nodded once.
"The Devourer’s rebirth.
The Devourer’s obliteration.
Or a third path."
Nysha’s eyes narrowed. "...A rger."
Lindarion didn’t deny it.
Nysha stepped closer, voice hushed. "What does that an?"
"I don’t know," Lindarion admitted. "But the Primordials designed a new vessel—a bridge. They didn’t create for power. They created to decide."
Ashwing squeaked. "So the universe made a diplomat with destructive potential?"
Lindarion inhaled deeply, steadying himself.
"No. It made soone who can refuse both sides."
Nysha froze.
And Ashwing whispered, "A diator."
Lindarion turned fully toward them now, sothing fierce and resolute glowing beneath his calm exterior—sothing shaped by cosmic weight but still fundantally, stubbornly his own.
"We’re not just preventing a war," he said.
"We’re rewriting how the universe handles the next one."
Nysha’s eyes sharpened with resolve.
Ashwing swallowed but nodded.
Lindarion stepped forward, the corridor wind brushing against him like the world was finally acknowledging the new force walking through it.
"The Fourth Primordial War is coming," he said.
"But this ti... the cosmos won’t fight without us."
The surface wind hit them the mont they stepped out of the cavern mouth—dry, bitter, sweeping across the dunes like a living curtain. The desert sun had dipped toward the horizon, painting the sand in deep bronze and gold. It should have felt oppressive, but after the tension underground, it felt almost gentle.
Nysha scanned the horizon while adjusting her cloak. "We need supplies, water rations, and a new route. The ridge is three days east if we cut across the Scoured Flats."
Ashwing flared his wings. "Three days if we walk. One day if Lindarion stops pretending he can’t fly with that new aura of his."
Lindarion didn’t react, only began walking toward the lower dunes. "I can’t fly."
"You levitated an ancient monolith," Ashwing countered, fluttering circles around him. "I’m pretty sure levitation plus direction equals—"
"A landing crash," Lindarion finished dryly. "We walk."
Nysha shot Ashwing a little smirk, the first real one since the trial. "Told you."
Ashwing grumbled under his breath but followed.
They descended the sandstone slope, boots crunching against scattered ancient debris—broken pillars, half-buried murals, fractured obsidian tiles older than recorded history. The ruins behind them humd once more before sealing completely, as though closing its eye.
Nysha walked in step beside Lindarion, but her gaze flicked to him often, studying his posture, the faint shift in his aura, the quiet weight he now carried.
Finally, she spoke. "You’re doing it again."
Lindarion didn’t look at her. "Doing what?"
"Carrying all of this like it’s yours alone."
"It is mine alone."
"No," she said, tone sharp enough to slice stone. "It isn’t. You’re connected to this conflict, yes. But you are not the conflict."
Lindarion paused mid-stride.
Nysha t his eyes without flinching. "You’re not a destiny puppet. You get to decide what part you play."
Ashwing swooped down onto Lindarion’s shoulder with exaggerated care. "Yeah. And if destiny has a problem with that, I’ll bite it."
A small, almost invisible smile tugged at the corner of Lindarion’s mouth. "You can’t bite fate."
"WATCH ."
Lindarion shook his head once and continued walking. But the tension in his shoulders loosened slightly—not enough for a stranger to notice, but enough for Nysha and Ashwing to feel.
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