The wind screamed through the Draig Cordillera, an unrelenting force that tore across the jagged peaks and sent cascades of powder-fine snow tumbling from the cliffs. The mountains stretched endlessly in all directions, their unforgiving beauty marred only by the distant shrieks of dragons wheeling in the storm-dark sky. This place was meant to be unreachable. Insurmountable. It had stood for eons as a boundary between the mortal world and something far older, far greater.
Dorian had never cared for boundaries.
He stood at the base of Caido’s Lighthouse, its towering form bathed in the ethereal glow of its shifting light. It pulsed softly, an otherworldly beacon casting a pale, holy glow over the mountains. Once, its presence might have been a comfort, a guide in the darkness for those foolish enough to wander here.
Tonight, it would become something else entirely.
The anger burned deep beneath his skin, a quiet, controlled thing—no outbursts, no fury spilling recklessly into the cold. But the weight of it was undeniable, pressing into his ribs like a wound he refused to acknowledge. The tundra had been taken from them, scrubbed clean of their work before the void could sink its roots deep. The gates of Halo had remained standing despite their efforts, the titan reduced to nothing before it had even fulfilled its purpose.
No more caution. No more slow, insidious spread.
Dorian exhaled sharply, his breath curling in the frozen air as he placed his gloved palm against the lighthouse’s surface. The stone was impossibly cold, as if even the touch of time could not warm it. His fingers flexed, steady, deliberate.
And then, the light began to change.
The pale luminescence flickered once. Twice. Then the transformation took hold.
A deep, violent violet erupted from the beacon, twisting upward like an uncoiling serpent. It surged through the night, casting the entire mountain range in its unholy glow. Shadows lengthened, distorting against the snow, and the peaks—so pristine, so untouchable—shivered beneath the weight of its presence. The lighthouse no longer guided the lost to safety. Now, it called to something else.
Something waiting.
Dorian stepped back, satisfied. The light was only the beginning.
Reaching into his coat, he withdrew a small satchel, the fabric dusted with frost. He unfastened it with a flick of his wrist, tilting his palm downward. The seeds that spilled forth were tiny, unassuming things, dark as the void itself, carried briefly by the wind before sinking into the snow.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then, the ground shuddered.
The first tendrils of void surged forth, black vines with jagged thorns pushing up through the frost, clawing toward the sky. They moved with unnatural speed, twisting around one another like serpents in the throes of hunger. They did not spread along the ground like ivy—they burrowed, roots sinking deep into the ice, into the rock, into the very marrow of the mountains.
The range shivered beneath their touch.
Glacial waterfalls, once pristine, darkened as the void seeped into their veins, tainting the water with inky tendrils that bled into every stream, every crack, every hidden crevice. The alpine meadows, so untouched by mortal eyes, withered in moments, swallowed by a tide of black.
Dorian stood at the center of it all, watching as his will unfolded across the mountains.
The dragons, once distant, had taken notice. Their roars echoed across the cliffs, deep and thunderous, their massive wings slicing through the corrupted light. Some circled above the lighthouse, wary, uncertain. Others turned and fled, vanishing into the storm, unwilling to face the force now carving its way through their domain.
And at the edges of the world—far beyond this peak—the lands bordering the Draig Cordillera would soon feel the shift. Soon, in Hak Etme, the once-sacred burial grounds would find the bones within shifting, twisting, as if the long-dead could feel the corruption sinking into the earth. In the Oerwould, the jungle, rich and overgrown, would begin to sense the wrongness creeping toward its borders. The trees might whisper their warnings, but they would not stop what was coming. The Feverlands, already tainted by the void once before, would they resist, or would they welcome the infection like an old wound reopening?
Dorian let out a breath, slow and measured, as the last of the seeds burrowed deep.
Dorian had never cared for boundaries.
He stood at the base of Caido’s Lighthouse, its towering form bathed in the ethereal glow of its shifting light. It pulsed softly, an otherworldly beacon casting a pale, holy glow over the mountains. Once, its presence might have been a comfort, a guide in the darkness for those foolish enough to wander here.
Tonight, it would become something else entirely.
The anger burned deep beneath his skin, a quiet, controlled thing—no outbursts, no fury spilling recklessly into the cold. But the weight of it was undeniable, pressing into his ribs like a wound he refused to acknowledge. The tundra had been taken from them, scrubbed clean of their work before the void could sink its roots deep. The gates of Halo had remained standing despite their efforts, the titan reduced to nothing before it had even fulfilled its purpose.
No more caution. No more slow, insidious spread.
Dorian exhaled sharply, his breath curling in the frozen air as he placed his gloved palm against the lighthouse’s surface. The stone was impossibly cold, as if even the touch of time could not warm it. His fingers flexed, steady, deliberate.
And then, the light began to change.
The pale luminescence flickered once. Twice. Then the transformation took hold.
A deep, violent violet erupted from the beacon, twisting upward like an uncoiling serpent. It surged through the night, casting the entire mountain range in its unholy glow. Shadows lengthened, distorting against the snow, and the peaks—so pristine, so untouchable—shivered beneath the weight of its presence. The lighthouse no longer guided the lost to safety. Now, it called to something else.
Something waiting.
Dorian stepped back, satisfied. The light was only the beginning.
Reaching into his coat, he withdrew a small satchel, the fabric dusted with frost. He unfastened it with a flick of his wrist, tilting his palm downward. The seeds that spilled forth were tiny, unassuming things, dark as the void itself, carried briefly by the wind before sinking into the snow.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then, the ground shuddered.
The first tendrils of void surged forth, black vines with jagged thorns pushing up through the frost, clawing toward the sky. They moved with unnatural speed, twisting around one another like serpents in the throes of hunger. They did not spread along the ground like ivy—they burrowed, roots sinking deep into the ice, into the rock, into the very marrow of the mountains.
The range shivered beneath their touch.
Glacial waterfalls, once pristine, darkened as the void seeped into their veins, tainting the water with inky tendrils that bled into every stream, every crack, every hidden crevice. The alpine meadows, so untouched by mortal eyes, withered in moments, swallowed by a tide of black.
Dorian stood at the center of it all, watching as his will unfolded across the mountains.
The dragons, once distant, had taken notice. Their roars echoed across the cliffs, deep and thunderous, their massive wings slicing through the corrupted light. Some circled above the lighthouse, wary, uncertain. Others turned and fled, vanishing into the storm, unwilling to face the force now carving its way through their domain.
And at the edges of the world—far beyond this peak—the lands bordering the Draig Cordillera would soon feel the shift. Soon, in Hak Etme, the once-sacred burial grounds would find the bones within shifting, twisting, as if the long-dead could feel the corruption sinking into the earth. In the Oerwould, the jungle, rich and overgrown, would begin to sense the wrongness creeping toward its borders. The trees might whisper their warnings, but they would not stop what was coming. The Feverlands, already tainted by the void once before, would they resist, or would they welcome the infection like an old wound reopening?
Dorian let out a breath, slow and measured, as the last of the seeds burrowed deep.
He'll rekindle all the dreams
it took you a lifetime to destroy
it took you a lifetime to destroy
