The wind carried the scent of ashwood and river ice as the seven heirs crested the final ridge of the Vharenthian side. Below them, wreathed in layers of rolling silver mist, the lands of Yrvalen stretched into a cold and ancient horizon. Sparse trees clawed at the sky, their trunks twisted like the bones of some long-dead beast. Even the light seemed thinner here, fractured by strange mists that never seemed to move with the wind.
Saviik StormCrown stood at the forefront, his obsidian hair brushing against his shoulders, eyes narrowed. The Echo stirred within his blood like a drumbeat heard through snow — cold, rhythmic, insistent.
Behind him, Xala Veyne exhaled, her fiery red hair swept into a braid crowned with amber beads, her jade-green eyes scanning the woods below. "So that's Yrvalen," she murmured, hand resting on the hilt of her ceremonial blade. "It feels... old."
"Everything here does," replied Seranyth of Myrrenhal, her tone clipped, observant. She adjusted the fine violet sash at her waist. "This kingdom hasn't changed its traditions in four hundred years. Let's not mistake mist and silence for hospitality."
A soft snort came from Vaelyra Fenraeth, who stood just behind them with arms folded. "They'll smile with honey on their tongues and poison beneath their teeth." Her sharp gray gaze lingered on the distant shadow of a tower. "And we're to be the 'gifts of peace.' Lovely."
Katja StormCrown chuckled, crouched low on a boulder, daggers strapped along her thighs. "Sounds like home, just with more fog."
"You joke," said Lira Elaren quietly, "but Yrvalen's court is a crucible. If we fracture, even a little, they'll notice."
Nysera of Vaelora nodded. The eldest of the seven, she stood cloaked in muted blue-gray, her silver-ringed staff resting in the snow beside her. "We enter as one voice, or not at all. Remember that."
Saviik said nothing. His eyes were fixed not on the border watchtower below, nor on the old stone road curling through the pass. His Echo was pulsing louder now, a low vibration behind his ribs. Not danger. Not yet. But something was waiting.
A storm, perhaps. Not of weather—but of time.
---
At the base of the hill, Veynaari honor guards stood in formation. At their center were emissaries from the StormCrown and Veyne banners — Yngvara, Matron-General of the Flamebound March, stood in her stormsilver plate, and beside her, Ilrana StormCrown, cloaked in deep blue and silver, her expression composed yet severe.
They had come to witness the crossing.
Yngvara looked over the seven with a warrior's critical eye. "You've trained for this. Now it begins. Yrvalen is not a land of blades and battle, but Echo, word, and will. Do not forget your oaths."
Ilrana stepped forward. "Saviik." Her gaze settled on her son. "You carry not only our banner, but our blood. Let none among them question your presence. Be what the storm made you."
He inclined his head. "I understand."
She nodded. "Good. Then go."
---
The crossing took place beneath a monolith—an old stone arch carved with ancient runes neither Veynaari nor Yrvalen-born. The custom was clear: no envoy could pass into the borderlands without an offering of identity and intent. A sliver of Echo given to the wardstone beneath the arch.
One by one, the heirs stepped forward.
Xala laid a tiny flame-wrought feather upon the stone, forged in her family's hearth-temple.
Seranyth offered a drop of blood in a chalice carved from Myrrenhal marble, symbolizing their truth-twisting but oath-bound creed.
Vaelyra placed a pendant woven from Fenraeth's frostwillow roots and starlight thread.
Lira whispered a song — a single, flawless note — into a crystal grown from Elaren's Moonspire vaults.
Aralya Thandor left the fang of a mountain direcat, etched with a Thandori rune of honor earned in battle.
Nysera of Vaelora offered a silken braid — her own — knotted with silver and veilsmoke. A gesture of openness and veiled truth.
And Saviik?
He placed his palm on the stone and let Coldlight surge from his Echo. The frost traced across the surface in elegant, ever-changing spirals — a storm contained. It lingered longer than the others, a mark of something more than a gift.
When it was done, the monolith glowed with soft blue fire, and the mist beyond parted.
The Kingdom of Yrvalen had accepted them.
The gates of Yrvalen's borderhold loomed ahead — tall and spired like the spears of slumbering gods. Crafted from blackstone veined with silver, the towering walls looked less like fortifications and more like monuments. Carvings of strange, long-necked beasts, robed figures with many eyes, and serpentine coils wound through the stone, faded by time but pulsing faintly with old Echo.
As the seven heirs approached, guards in deep azure cloaks and gleaming helms stepped forward. They bore the sigil of House Vareth: a crowned serpent circling a midnight star.
"State your delegation," one of them called, voice hollow behind the helm.
Saviik stepped forward. "We come under Vharenthia's crown — bound by oath, blood, and peace."
Xala added, "We are the chosen scions of the Seven Clans. You were told of our coming."
The guards conferred briefly. Then one turned and pounded a staff against the stones thrice.
The gates opened.
Beyond them, Yrvalen greeted them not with applause nor fanfare, but with silence. Only wind and the cold whisper of ancient banners brushing the air.
---
They were taken through narrow streets of obsidian brick and lightless lanterns that glowed with ghostfire. Yrvalen's architecture was older, taller, and darker than Vharenthia's sweeping halls and storm-crowned towers. Their hosts said little. Shadows moved behind shuttered windows. Statues watched them with eyeless faces.
"This place feels... haunted," Aralya muttered, hand twitching near her blade.
"No," Nysera murmured. "Watched."
"They see us not as guests," Seranyth said, voice low and sharp. "But as pieces on a board."
They were led to a citadel known as Nhal'Zevren, the Palace of Twilight Accord, built around a shattered mountain whose peak jutted into the stars like a fang. Here, the diplomatic conclave would unfold — trials of wit, negotiation, and Echo meant to test more than alliance. Yrvalen didn't want allies. They wanted leverage.
And they were already probing.
---
That night, the seven gathered in the private hall given to them — a wide chamber lit by pale-blue crystals and an open brazier that crackled with echo-flame.
Saviik stood apart, eyes closed. His Echo pulsed again, slower now. Dreamlike.
He saw—
Wings.
Vast. Black. Endless.
A roar that shattered thought and left only the memory of falling.
A mountain torn open. A voice that did not speak, but unmade.
He gasped and staggered back.
"Saviik?" Xala was at his side immediately.
He blinked. "I... saw it again."
"The black dragon?" Nysera asked.
He nodded. "It's closer."
They exchanged glances.
"Echo-dreams aren't prophecy," Seranyth said. "They're possibilities."
"Even so," Lira murmured, "some possibilities refuse to die."
Saviik steadied himself. "We can't afford to falter now. Yrvalen will not grant peace freely. We must earn it — or outplay them at their own game."
Katja grinned. "Then let's play."
The next morning, the halls of Nhal'Zevren echoed with chimes and whispers as emissaries, nobles, and masked officials of Yrvalen gathered within the Court of Whispering Iron — an immense amphitheater built into the ribs of the shattered mountain itself. Echo-lanterns hovered in geometric patterns above, casting prismatic rays across the cold black marble. Nothing in this court was built for comfort; everything was carved to inspire awe, unease, or obedience.
The seven heirs sat together at a crescent obsidian table in the center dais — each in ceremonial attire reflecting their clans.
Saviik StormCrown wore storm-gray silks lined with coldlight-thread and a mantle etched with the runes of House StormCrown.
Xala Veyne adorned herself in crimson and cream battle-robes, her clan's lion-drake sigil emblazoned on her back.
Seranyth of Myrrenhal was elegant in violet-glass armor, lips thin, eyes sharp.
Vaelyra of Fenraeth wore silverleaf cloak over moss-green silk, her aura calm and elusive.
Lira of Elaren bore a vestment of celestial blue trimmed in star-silver, radiant and composed.
Aralya of Thandor wore dusksteel armor with flame-etched gauntlets — more soldier than diplomat.
Nysera of Vaelora was quiet in her twilight-gray robes, the runes of her people moving faintly over her skin like living ink.
Their presence was not unnoticed.
From across the chamber came the low laughter of Yrvalen's ruling heir — Prince Aradel Vareth.
"Seven thrones to guard one crown," he mused, descending from his obsidian stair. He was tall, dark-haired, and clad in armor made of glimmering wyrm-bone. "How noble. How quaint."
Saviik met his gaze. "One crown to guard the realm."
"Or conquer it," Aradel said. "The difference lies in who wins the feast."
Behind him stood his court — emissaries of the Wyrm-Lords of the Deep Barrows, the Ash Priests of Silent Flame, and the Weavers of Blackglass. Yrvalen's houses were older than Vharenthia's, and more secretive. They did not smile with their mouths — only with politics.
The first diplomatic challenge came in the form of the Feast of Pacts, where words were weapons and every course of the meal was tied to a riddle, test, or verbal duel.
Course One — "The Oathwine Debate."
Each heir was required to propose a vision of shared peace that would benefit both realms. Their proposals were judged not only on content but presentation and implication.
Seranyth dazzled with sharp wit and logic, offering a trade accord with hidden military implications.
Lira focused on education and arcane exchange, soft power masked in light.
Aralya made no pretenses — she proposed joint military drills to forge strength and respect.
Saviik, however, spoke last. His voice calm, words carefully chosen.
> "Peace is not born of strength alone, nor cleverness. It is trust. And trust is earned when those who lead are willing to stand unshielded before their enemies — to risk not just their lives, but their pride."
There was silence after he spoke.
Then murmurs.
Prince Aradel raised his glass. "A bold sentiment, StormCrown. Let us see if you bleed honesty when tested."
The second course was a Mirror Duel — not with weapons, but Echo. Each heir was to face a manifestation of their own fears — conjured from within the Veiled Crucible, a device that lured Echoes of emotion into form.
Saviik's mirror stepped forth — a reflection of himself cloaked in black fire, eyes hollow, wings vast and broken. The Dark Sovereign.
"You will become me," it hissed.
Saviik stared at it. "Only if I surrender."
He stepped through the illusion, and it burned away like ash on the wind.
The court stirred. Even Prince Aradel blinked.
---
Later, in the private garden chambers, the seven gathered again.
"We've gained some ground," Vaelyra said, her voice thoughtful.
"Enough to unsettle them," Katja added, sharpening a knife idly. "Which means they'll strike soon."
"Let them," Seranyth said. "We are not leaves in their wind."
Saviik remained silent for a long moment. Then he looked up, jaw set.
"They'll test us again. But not here."
Nysera tilted her head. "You felt something?"
"Not a vision. A pull."
Toward the Ruins of Ezhariin — a long-forbidden vault beneath the mountain. Whispers called to him there. Not of dragons.
But of something older.
The stars over Nhal'Zevren were hidden behind the clouds that night, and the mountain groaned with a low, unnatural thunder. The city never truly slept, but this night felt quieter than most — a hush before the breath of something ancient stirred again.
Saviik stood alone at the edge of a high terrace carved into the mountain's throat. From here, he could see the winding paths descending into the shadowed districts — places even the court dared not tread. He wasn't sure how he had ended up here; his feet had moved before his mind caught up.
Behind him, the air stirred. Xala's voice.
"You sensed it too."
He turned. She was dressed plainly — no colors of House Veyne, no pretense of court. Just the girl who had once challenged him to a race through the snow-fields of Vharenthia at eight winters old.
"There's something beneath this place," Saviik said. "Calling."
"You dreamt it?"
"No. I heard it. While awake."
Xala stepped closer. "Then we're going together."
Moments later, five more silhouettes slipped from the night. Seranyth, Vaelyra, Lira, Aralya, and Nysera. They had come without being summoned.
"You thought we wouldn't follow?" said Lira, arms folded.
"We're bound, Saviik," added Aralya. "Not just by pact. But by fate. Or Echo. Or whatever it is that put us all in one place."
"We walk together," said Vaelyra softly.
Nysera's eyes gleamed. "And if we're walking toward something ancient and dead... better we face it while it still slumbers."
Together, they made their descent.
---
They passed through Wyrmspire's Maw, a forgotten passage veiled by illusions and guarded only by silence. This was Old Yrvalen, buried and forbidden. Walls of black glass bore carvings in dead languages — not of the Veynaari, not even Elven.
Saviik traced one symbol glowing faintly as they passed.
"The Eye That Watches Beneath Flame," Nysera whispered, reading the glyph in the dark. "A warding mark. Something was locked here."
They reached the Vault of Ezhariin — a door fused of seven Echo types, sealed with threads of Coldlight, Duskshear, Whisperlight, Flamebind, Verdantkin, Mirrorborn, and one that pulsed with a terrible hunger: the Void-Echo.
"I've never seen that type," Seranyth said. "It doesn't belong."
"It does now," Nysera said grimly. "It's not of our world. But it's bleeding in."
Saviik pressed his hand to the door. It pulsed. His Echo answered — and the door began to unmake itself.
---
Inside was darkness.
Not the absence of light — but the devouring of it.
They walked the Vault's winding, obsidian corridors, where voices whispered behind the walls. Visions flickered in the corners of their minds — pasts, futures, possible selves.
Saviik saw himself crowned, aflame in battle, the six women behind him — warriors, queens, ghosts.
He shook it off.
At the heart of the Vault was a sphere of black crystal, floating above an ancient pedestal. Runes danced across its surface in broken Veilscript.
Lira stared, shivering. "It's... alive."
Then it spoke.
"Son of StormCrown. Bearer of the First Flame. You who were born beneath storm and shadow... awaken."
Saviik's Echo flared violently.
Visions surged.
A black-winged titan in the skies. Cities aflame. Screams carried by the wind. A name etched across time and fear:
Xaruun, the Dreadwing Eternal.
The ancient enemy. The true opposite of Echo.
The thing that waits.
Saviik fell to one knee.
Xala caught him. "Saviik!"
"I'm fine," he gasped. "But it knows I'm here."
---
The sphere dimmed. The Vault went still.
Behind them, the ground trembled.
"Time to go," Aralya said, drawing steel.
They escaped through shuddering corridors, barely leaping free before the Vault began to collapse in upon itself, sealing once more.
As they emerged under the open sky, Nysera looked at him.
"The dreams were warnings," she whispered. "But now... now they're invitations."
The sun never rose the same after what lay beneath Nhal'Zevren was awakened.
By the time Saviik and the six heiresses returned from the ruins, dawn had broken in sullen tones, casting a pale gold across the frost-glazed mountains. But the light felt thinner, stretched, and haunted — like something in the sky had recoiled.
Atop the Skyward Terrace of Yrvalen's border stronghold, horns sounded. A procession waited — Lords of the March, their war-priests, silvercloaked guardsmen, and emissaries of the royal court.
Their presence was ceremonial, but today, it felt like surveillance.
Saviik adjusted the silver mantle across his shoulders. His armor bore the crest of StormCrown, but it was speckled with ash from the Vault's collapse. He hadn't spoken much since emerging. The sphere's voice — It knows I'm here — still echoed through his mind.
Beside him, Xala Veyne remained sharp-eyed, even as fatigue crept beneath her regal bearing. Her fiery hair, caught in braids laced with crimson thread, danced lightly in the wind.
Ahead stood the first challenge: an audience with Yrvalen's Crown Regent — Lord Vhalzareth of the Bonecourt, a man more viper than diplomat. He had summoned them for formal recognition... but Yrvalen never acted without hidden stakes.
They entered the High Court of Nareth-Khal to thunderous silence.
---
The court chamber was carved into the face of the mountain itself, a cathedral of stone, veined with minerals that pulsed faintly with Echo-light. Thrones of obsidian and crystal flanked the walls, each occupied by courtiers, vassals, and spies alike. Coldlight torches lined the hall, their silver-blue flames casting long shadows.
Lord Vhalzareth sat upon a seat forged of bone-white stone, his thin frame draped in layered black silk and Voidspun armor — a deliberate provocation. His eyes, unnaturally pale, never blinked.
He studied them, saying nothing, letting discomfort ferment like wine.
Then, a whisper:
"So... the children of the storm and flame descend from their heights. What echoes do you carry from below?"
Saviik did not answer.
Nysera of Clan Vaelora stepped forward first, her voice serene but sharpened. "We encountered remnants of the old world. Dangerous ones. Sealed now. But not forgotten."
The room stirred — some gasped, others exchanged hushed murmurs.
"Curious," said Vhalzareth, folding his thin fingers. "Curious that heirs from all seven clans descend beneath a city not their own... and wake something even the gods chose to abandon."
"That was not our intent," Seranyth said. Her tone was polished — honed for political duels. "And if Yrvalen values peace with Vharenthia, you would do well not to provoke those sent in trust."
Vhalzareth smiled thinly. "Peace? Or surveillance? Vharenthia sends its most promising youth and cloaks it in diplomacy. A kind gesture — or a quiet threat?"
Xala stepped forward. "The only threat would be if someone here turned this into one."
The chamber shifted.
Saviik, through it all, remained quiet. His mind was still storm-tossed. Beneath the bone and crystal pageantry, he felt it: the Eye was watching.
---
That night, after the court recessed, the emissaries were granted rooms in the Tower of Emberglass — secure, but distant from the city's center.
The rooms were divided by clan affiliation, but Saviik and the six heiresses met in secret in a moonlit chamber atop the spire. They could speak there without veiled ears.
"They're rattled," Aralya said, sitting against the ledge, polishing a blade. "They know something stirred down there. But they don't know what."
"They suspect us," Vaelyra added. "And suspicion turns to knives, given enough time."
Nysera looked toward the horizon. "It's already begun. I felt the tremors under the court's floor. A scrying ward, old and cloaked. Someone else saw what we did."
"Spies?" asked Lira.
"Worse," Nysera said. "Something feeding from what we awakened."
Xala clenched her jaw. "Then we can't afford mistakes. Not here. Not now."
A knock echoed through the corridor.
And the first arrow struck.
---
Steel rang in the dark. Shadows shifted.
An assassin — faceless, Echo-cloaked — breached the outer halls, loosing poisoned bolts into the guards stationed beyond the emissaries' quarters. One arrow grazed Aralya's shoulder. Another sank into a Silverblade captain's neck.
Saviik moved like instinct.
His Echo flared — Coldlight surged, freezing the assassin's blade mid-thrust. Xala drove a dagger into the attacker's thigh, twisting. Aralya, even wounded, disarmed the second with a snap of her wrist and a kick to the throat.
But it was Nysera who found the real threat.
A third figure — unseen until then — moved in the shadows like smoke. Her Whisperlight flared, revealing a cloaked man with a dagger marked in Void-runes aimed directly for Saviik's heart.
He paused.
Only for a moment.
But that was enough.
Vaelyra's glaive swept through the air, knocking him into the wall. Saviik's hand closed on the assassin's throat, and Coldlight rippled through his fingers.
"I saw you in the Vault," Saviik said. "You're not just a killer."
The man's eyes bled black. "She waits. She sees. And you are already marked."
Then he collapsed — lifeless, smoking from within.
---
As the chamber calmed, the survivors gathered.
"This wasn't just political," Seranyth said. "That was a cultist."
"More than that," Nysera whispered. "A worshipper. Of Xaruun."
The others went silent.
"The Dreadwing's reach... it's already in this world."