Etherion

The fire dies in stages, its amber glow retreating like a wounded animal. I watch the flames shrink, then splutter, then compress into a thread of light so thin it seems more memory than warmth. Around me, the caravan camp falls silent—even the night insects suspend their nightly chorus.

System Alert: Echo of an Arcanist detected nearby. Ancient pattern. Unstable.

The words flicker across my vision, a digital whisper against the growing darkness. My hand instinctively moves to the modified Arcanist robes draped across my shoulders, fingers tracing the reinforced seams that mark my garment as something... different.

Cassian is the first to notice. His scholarly eyes, typically keen but now rimmed with exhaustion from our recent encounter with the Hollow Howler, narrow. "Something's wrong," he mutters, more to himself than to the others.

Thorne's hand moves to his weapon, a reflexive gesture born of years of survival. Miren remains still, her breath barely perceptible. Elio... Elio seems almost expectant, a strange tension radiating from him that makes my skin prickle.

Then he emerges.

Not a ghost. Not a spirit. But something between memory and manifestation.

The figure wears robes so ancient they seem woven from starlight and shadow. Tattered edges dissolve and reform with each subtle movement, as if struggling to maintain coherence. Where a face should be, there is only a suggestion of features—sharp angles, deep-set eyes that hold millennia of knowledge.

"Keeper of the Fractured Line," the apparition speaks, his voice a resonance that seems to vibrate through bone and thought. "Not yet complete."

I watch as Cassian drops to his knees.

It isn't fear that brings him down, but pure academic reverence. His fingers tremble as he studies the figure's attire—authentic Arcanist robes, untouched by the systematic erasure that has consumed most historical records. Beside them, my own garments look like a pale imitation, a carefully reconstructed echo.

"Impossible," Cassian whispers. "The Accord's records... they said all traces were gone."

The apparition—Etherion, the System helpfully labels in my vision—turns his gaze directly to me. "Incomplete," he repeats. "Your awakening is but a fragment. The true potential remains locked."

System Update: Interfacing with Lost Arcanist Echo. Initializing preservation protocols.

I feel a surge of energy, a tingling that starts at my fingertips and races along my nervous system. My Arcane Whisper ability expands, revealing layers of magical residue I've never perceived before.

"The Sanctum," Etherion continues, his form flickering like an old holographic projection, "remains beyond their reach. Beyond his reach." The last word carries a weight of personal history, a warning wrapped in centuries of conflict.

Cassian's scholarly composure cracks. "The Sanctum? It was always considered a myth, a theoretical construct in ancient texts. No credible scholar—"

"Silence, Archive keeper," Etherion interrupts. "Your 'credible' knowledge is but a carefully curated illusion."

His attention returns to me. "You must find it. Before the war consumes what remains. The entrance is not marked by stone or symbol, but by blood and intention. Only a true Arcanist can—"

System Anomaly Detected. Interference Pattern.

The air suddenly feels charged, electric. Elio shifts, and with his movement, Etherion's form begins to destabilize. Fragments of his spectral form start to dissolve, like mist catching a sudden wind.

"Wait!" I reach out, my hand passing through nothing.

System Alert: Magical Interference. Connection Degrading.

"The coordinates," Etherion's voice grows distant, "are hidden in the—"

And then, silence.

New Quest Activated: Seek the Arcanist Sanctum, Memory Fragment Unlocked: 10%, Arcane Whisper Ability Enhanced.

The fire rekindles, as if nothing has happened. But everything has changed.

Thorne breaks the silence first. "What in the bleeding hells was that?"

Miren's hand is already sketching protective sigils in the air, an unconscious defensive gesture.

Cassian remains on his knees, his scholarly world irrevocably shattered. "Everything we know," he mutters, "everything the Accord has taught us... it's been a lie."

My fingers trace the modifications on my robes. Incomplete. The word echoes in my mind, a promise and a challenge.

Ravenswatch awaits. And with it, perhaps, the next fragment of a truth long buried.

System: Preparing route calculations for Ravenswatch. Anomaly tracking initiated.