The Gathering Storm

The wind howled over the cliffs of Caelum's Rise, carrying with it the scent of ash, blood, and distant thunder.

Leon stood alone at the edge of the citadel, cloak billowing behind him, his gaze fixed toward the eastern horizon. The stars above shimmered faintly, dimmed by the oppressive veil of clouds that had grown thicker over the past days. Even the sky seemed to tremble in anticipation.

They were coming.

The Triumvirate—three divine instruments of order, bound to the Celestial Pact, forged to destroy any deity who dared challenge the balance. Theros' warning echoed within him like a drumbeat of fate.

But Leon did not flinch.

He had been a god once.

He would be one again.

---

Elsewhere, in the outskirts of what remained of the Great Plains…

Dozens of rogue factions wandered the shattered world. Most were simple survivors—clinging to fire, to hope. But among them were Awakened, those touched by the virus in ways that unlocked dormant energies—abilities, mutations, gifts that echoed divine ancestry.

In a ruined bunker, a meeting was underway.

A girl with silver eyes and raven hair—no more than seventeen—sat at the head of a makeshift table. Around her were men and women scarred by battle and loss. She tapped the edge of her gauntlet and whispered, "He's real. I saw him."

"Who?" asked an older man, scars lining his jaw.

"The one who fought the Herald. Leon."

Murmurs erupted. The girl—Nira—raised her hand.

"We've been scavengers, rebels, and prey. But now? We have a beacon. He's building something. A haven. We need to reach it before the Triumvirate does."

"What makes you think he'll accept us?" the old man muttered. "Gods don't usually welcome the broken."

"He's not like the gods," Nira said, a spark in her voice. "He fought one. He bleeds like us. But he also burns."

---

Back at Caelum's Rise

The camp was growing faster than Leon anticipated. Every day, more survivors arrived—drawn by stories, by the promise of protection, by the myth of a man who shattered a Herald with his bare hands.

Elyra managed them with frightening efficiency. A former tactician and one of the first to awaken powers under Leon's protection, she had quickly risen to become his second-in-command. Her icy demeanor hid a deep loyalty—and an uncanny mind for strategy.

She approached Leon now, reports in hand.

"New refugees. About two hundred. Most from the eastern sectors. Some are Awakened."

Leon didn't turn.

"Any signs of the Triumvirate?"

"Not yet, but the skies are shifting. Our scouts spotted a fissure over the Red Mountains. It... glows with divine energy."

Leon finally spoke. "They'll attack soon."

"We're not ready," she said softly.

"No," Leon agreed. "But we will be."

He turned to face her, his eyes glowing with a faint silver hue.

"I'm going to the Temple."

Elyra stiffened. "The Temple of Fragments? That place is suicide, Leon. No one who's entered has ever come out."

"I'm not just anyone."

---

That night, Leon left under cover of darkness, accompanied only by a silent figure—Vex, a former assassin turned shadow-walker. His body was laced with void tattoos, each one binding a different ability awakened by the virus. He didn't speak much, but Leon trusted him implicitly.

They crossed barren lands, dried rivers, and haunted cities where whispers clung to walls like cobwebs. And then, they reached it.

The Temple of Fragments.

A ruin lost to time and memory, it stood like a broken spine jutting from the earth. Once a divine sanctuary, now it pulsed with chaotic energy—wild, unstable, dangerous.

"This place is alive," Vex murmured.

"No," Leon corrected. "It's remembering."

They entered.

Inside, the laws of physics bent like reeds in a storm. Hallways looped endlessly, doors led to memories, and shadows whispered names long dead.

Leon pressed forward.

He wasn't here for relics.

He was here for the piece of himself left behind.

At the temple's heart, they found it—a crystal, floating in silence, pulsing with silver light. Within it burned a flame shaped like a crown.

Leon stepped forward.

The flame flared.

Visions consumed him.

Battles fought beneath dying suns. Cities that touched the stars. A throne forged of light and shadow. And at the center… himself—as he was. Crowned. Alone. Broken.

Then the flame spoke.

"Why do you seek what you once cast away?"

Leon's voice echoed, steady. "Because I now know why I need it."

"To rule again?"

"No," he whispered, reaching toward the light. "To protect what matters."

The crystal shattered.

And with it—his first true fragment of divinity returned.

Power surged through him. His eyes ignited. Symbols etched themselves across his skin, and the very air bowed in reverence.

---

Outside, Vex knelt.

He didn't know what he had just witnessed, but he felt it.

The return of the King had begun.

---

Meanwhile… above Earth's shattered orbit

Three figures stood before a gate of stars.

The Triumvirate.

Ceryn, the Hand of Judgement—clad in golden armor, wielding the gavel of cause and effect.

Vaelis, the Eye of Fate—a being of flowing silk and fire, with no face, only a mirror.

Drazel, the Fang of Endings—part beast, part god, his breath death itself.

They stared downward, toward Earth.

"He has awakened a fragment," Vaelis said.

"Then we descend," Ceryn replied.

Drazel grinned. "And he will fall."

---

Back on Earth, near Caelum's Rise…

The sky tore open.

A rift, pure and blinding, split the clouds apart. Thunder roared—not from the sky, but from beyond it.

And from within that light, three shadows fell—slowly, like comets, like judgment itself.

The Triumvirate had arrived.