I step through the portal. Reality warps and bends, folding in on itself like origami made of light and shadow. My stomach lurches as dimensions compress and expand around me. The sensation is familiar yet alien—like being turned inside out while remaining perfectly still.
Colors blur and stretch. The temple's polished floors melt into streaks of light that spiral through impossible geometries. For a heartbeat, I exist everywhere and nowhere, my consciousness scattered across the infinite spaces between spaces.
The world snaps back into focus. Frozen air burns my lungs as my feet touch the ceremonial platform high above New Larin's frost-covered ground. The wind whips around us, carrying the scent of pine and snow from distant forests.
In the distance, Malkiel rises like a dream made manifest. Its spires pierce the darkening sky, their crystalline surfaces refracting the last rays of sunlight in prismatic cascades. The city's geometry is stable upon the surface of New Larin, its tesseract nature hidden behind a mundane facade.
A dark speck mars the purple-tinged clouds—too large for a bird, too deliberate for debris. I squint, but it vanishes behind a bank of clouds.
Below, multitudes fill the gathering grounds. Among them, the Eidolon Grandmasters of the Hundred Conclaves stand in their designated circle, their gold torqs gleaming with earned power. The Heart Guard and Temple Guards of the Thousand Assembles form the inner ring, their black-silver and white-silver armor gleaming like liquid metal. Beyond them, the imposing figures of the Void Sentinels stand perfectly still in their fuligin uniforms that seem to devour the dying light, their mere presence causing the crowds to shift uneasily away.
High-Exarch Oshen stands at the platform's edge, his Mask of the Autarch reflecting the dying rays of the sun. The hollow eyes of his mask reveal nothing, but his stillness speaks volumes.
More figures emerge from the portal behind me. The children of House Azure stream through, taking their positions with practiced precision. Helena Urisius and her entourage from House Vermilion arrange themselves on the opposite side of the platform, maintaining the delicate balance of power.
The dark shape reappears, larger now. Its movement speaks of purpose rather than nature, descending on an angle that cannot be coincidence.
"Remember to breathe," Cyra whispers beside me. Her hand brushes mine, a ghost of contact. "Your face is doing that thing again."
I release the tension in my jaw, conscious now of how tightly I'd been clenching it. "What thing?"
"That murder-the-world thing. We're here to observe, nothing more."
Movement catches my eye. Penelope's gaze meets mine for a moment, beguiling and remote. Her lips curve into a sad smile.
Uncle Titus emerges last, the portal sealing behind him like a wound healing in reverse. His Codicil still glows faintly on his forehead, a reminder of the power he used to bring us here. He moves to stand beside the High-Exarch, and the air itself seems to hold its breath, waiting for what comes next.
The shape in the sky has doubled in size, its silhouette becoming clearer against the darkening heavens. My heart quickens as I recognize the angular design of a military vimana.
Cyra leaves my side, joins the Chatelaines circling Uncle Titus. Their movements are precise, ritualistic. Each piece of armor they remove carries weight beyond its metal—symbols of power stripped away to reveal vulnerability beneath.
The clasps click open one by one. Pauldrons first, then vambraces, each piece handed off with reverence to waiting attendants. The chest plate comes last, its removal exposing Titus's flawless torso.
Incense smoke coils around us as the Exarchs pace in measured steps. Their cylinders swing in perfect rhythm, releasing ash-colored plumes. The scent is sharp and sacred—ancient resins that spark memories of the Dularch-Temple.
The first notes of the Exarch's dirge rise above the wind. Their voices blend in haunting harmony, each word carrying the weight of ages:
"In the tapestry of time, threads intertwine,
The legacy of the Autarch, in every star does shine..."
The melody wraps around us like a physical thing. It speaks of loss and perseverance, of shattered worlds and enduring hope. The song pulls at something deep inside me, an ache I cannot name.
Above, the vimana emerges fully from the clouds—a Vritraha war fortress, its obsidian hull drinking in what remains of the sunlight. Massive beyond comprehension, it descends with the inexorable patience of an approaching storm. Energy cannons along its flanks pulse with gathering power, and its troop deployment bays yawn open like hungry mouths.
The gathered masses stand motionless, their attention fixed on the ritual before them, unaware of the darkness growing overhead. Even the wind seems to quiet, as if nature itself pays respect to this ancient hymn.
Bare-chested, Titus drops to his knees, his face lifted to the darkening sky. Does he see it? Does he know what approaches?
The High-Exarch's voice carries across the platform, resonating through his mask. "We gather here, as our ancestors did, to remember that even the mightiest must bow before truth." His Staff of the Eternal Watch strikes the ground with each emphasis. "The Festival of Retrospection binds us to our past and guides our future."
Wind snaps at his midnight-colored robes as he paces behind Titus. "In these moments, we witness power laid bare, stripped of pretense. For what is strength without wisdom? What is authority without accountability?"
The mask turns toward the assembled crowd. "Look upon your Blue Dularch. See how he kneels, not in weakness, but in recognition of a power greater than himself."
My uncle remains motionless, his breathing steady despite the bitter cold against his exposed skin. Ice crystals form in his platinum hair.
An Exarch approaches Oshen, hands him a whip. Metal gleams along its length—cruel barbs that makes my breath hiss. The weapon seems to drink in the shadows, its edges hungry for flesh.
The Vritraha's shadow falls across the platform like a shroud, yet still the ceremony continues. Its hull now blocks out half the sky, weapon ports sliding open with mechanical precision. The deep thrumming of its engines resonates in my bones.
"Dularch Titus Ragnos," Oshen's voice cuts through the wind. "Are you prepared to acknowledge your failures before the people of Malkiel? To accept judgment for choices made in pride or haste?"
The whip uncoils like a serpent awakening.
"I, Titus Ragnos, kneel before the eternal Autarch, humbled by my transgressions," Uncle Titus intones, his voice steady despite the biting cold. "I confess that pride blinded my duty to the sacred trust of the Archives. In seeking glory through expansion, I forsook preservation. For this, I seek the Autarch's infinite mercy."
The whip cracks, a sound sharp as splitting ice. Blood sprays onto the pristine platform, bright and steaming. I flinch, but Uncle Titus does not stir. His flesh knits together, a shimmer of dimensional energy rippling across his back as his Zarath draws from countless alternate selves.
"I confess my failure to uphold the honor of Malkiel in diplomacy with the Yeshong emissaries." Another confession. Another crack. The bloodstain deepens, but Titus's posture remains unyielding.
The High-Exarch moves with precision, his mask a void that reflects nothing of his intent. Yet his posture betrays a dark fervor—his shoulders taut, his grip firm, the whip striking with an eagerness that borders on zeal. I recall his fury at the Veilstone and the interruption Titus forced upon him.
"I confess to letting my vendettas poison the affairs of state." Titus's words falter under the weight of the next blow. The whip carves deep, tearing flesh, though the wounds vanish as alternate timelines bleed through—ghostly scars surfacing only to disappear.
The High-Exarch's whip falls faster now, its cracks echoing like thunder over the gathered crowd. "The Autarch demands unflinching truth, Dularch," Oshen declares, his voice sharp as a blade, cutting through the cold. "Surely there are graver sins shadowing your soul?"
Titus breathes deeply, his exhalations forming clouds in the frozen air. When he speaks again, his voice is softer but carries the weight of centuries. "I confess to failing those who looked to me for protection. To letting fear grip my hand when wisdom should have guided it. For this, too, I beg absolution."
The whip descends with a force that shakes the air, and this time I swear I hear the faintest hint of a laugh beneath Oshen's mask. It is not joy, but a chilling satisfaction—a predator savoring its quarry.
A surge of violet energy cascades over the Vritraha's hull, streaking toward us like a vengeful storm. The air vibrates, heavy and sharp, as if the entire world braces for impact. The ground beneath the platform trembles. The scent of ozone thickens, mingling with the tang of incense.
For a fleeting moment, everything stands still. The whip freezes mid-swing. The Exarchs halt their chant. The crowd holds its collective breath, eyes fixed upward at the descending wrath of the sky.
And then—