Alliances and Betrayals
Across the stars, on the savage world of Vorrak, colorful tents billowed in the harsh winds. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and the metallic tang of freshly sharpened weapons. Colorful, intricately patterned carpets covered the ground between dwellings, creating temporary streets and gathering spaces — all of which were filled with Orukai warriors, from every tribe.
The Orukai were an imposing sight, their bodies massive and corded with muscle beneath rough, grayish-green skin. Bony protrusions jutted from their foreheads and along their spines, a testament to their evolutionary adaptation to Vorrak's harsh environment. Their eyes, slightly larger than a human's and with vertical pupils, glowed with an inner fire in shades of amber and crimson. Many bore intricate tribal scars and vibrant war paint, turning their already fearsome visages into masks of primal fury.
The quarterly gathering of the Mok'rash Caravans was in full swing. As tradition dictated, the tribes had converged on the Stormheart Sanctuary for their seasonal pilgrimage, transforming the harsh plains into a vibrant sea of tents, market stalls, and training grounds. The air hummed with anticipation, for today marked one of the four sacred gatherings when the Stormheart Sanctuary's warrior-priests would stand down their eternal vigil. The formidable Orukai guard that normally warned away all off-worlders with spear and blade, would today welcome visitors, traders and diplomats brave enough to set foot on Vorrak's harsh soil.
At the heart of this unprecedented gathering stood the Stormheart, a monolith rising above the plains, dwarfing even the largest beasts of burden that roamed Vorrak. Carved from a single, massive boulder, its weather-worn surface was etched with intricate, ancient carvings, scenes of great hunts and battles. And inside, pulsing with power, was the ancient reactor, a swirling vortex of primal energies.
Outside, the sea of war-painted clan chiefs pushed and strained to see, waiting impatiently. The guttural sounds of their native tongue, interspersed with war cries and challenges, created a cacophony that echoed across the gathering. But their leader had still not appeared.
At the foot of the Sanctuary, inside the largest tent, adorned with the pelts of fearsome beasts and trophies of countless battles, Chieftain Grukor Bloodfang sat upon a throne fashioned from the bones of legendary creatures.
Before him stood two Luminarian emissaries, their willowy forms and ethereal beauty a stark contrast to the brutal, primal atmosphere of their surroundings.
"...and so, great Chieftain, you must understand," the lead Luminarian concluded, "There is going to be war. Sides will be drawn, and we will all have to choose. So, we implore you to join our kingdoms in standing against the threat of Slayn. Only united, can we ensure the safety of all our worlds."
Grukor's eyes narrowed as he considered the Luminarians' words. He turned to his most trusted advisor, Throkk, who spoke in the guttural language of the Orukai.
"What you say, old friend? To have these stargazers bowing their heads in your tent, in our most sacred place... it is no small thing."
Grukor, his face a map of scars earned in countless battles, grunted in response. “So you say… But these wretched book-lovers with their stink of dust wouldn't come to me unless they were desperate.”
Throkk mused. "Perhaps. Or perhaps this is our chance to forge a legend, to have our names etched in the stars themselves."
With a deep breath, Grukor straightened his massive frame, and prepared to address the Luminarians. But before he could speak, a commotion erupted at the entrance of the chamber.
An Orukai scout burst in, dragging a struggling figure behind him. "Chieftain!" the scout cried, "We caught this spy lurking near the Sanctuary's edge!"
The Grivlak, a cunning-looking creature with sharp teeth, gray-green skin and large, mono-colored eyes, was thrown at Grukor's feet. The chieftain's gaze hardened as he regarded the captive.
"Speak, tinkerer," Grukor growled. "What brings you to spy on our gathering?"
The Grivlak, trembling with fear, blurted out, "I... I came with them!" He pointed a grease-stained finger at the Luminarian emissaries.
A hush fell over the chamber. Grukor turned his piercing gaze to the Luminarians.
The lead Luminarian stepped forward, his composure slipping slightly. "Great Chieftain, the High Kingdoms face an unprecedented threat. We seek all the allies we can muster, as should you. The Grivlaks of your planet, like the Orukai, have a stake in—"
"Silence!" Grukor roared, rising to his full, imposing height. His voice shook the very foundations of the Sanctuary.
"You dishonor us with these shadow games," he snarled. "The Orukai have been the shield of Vorrak since the first stars burned, since the Time of First Blood! If you sought our strength, you should have come to us alone."
"Chieftain, please," the Luminarian's voice wavered. "The threat we face requires unity—"
"You come not seeking unity, but pawns to move across your cosmic game board." Without awaiting another response, Grukor stormed out of the chamber.
The gathered tribes roared, as Grukor climbed atop the platform fashioned from the skull of some gargantuan beast. His voice boomed across the assembled throng, carrying to even the furthest reaches of the encampment.
"Brothers and sisters of the Mok'rash! Hear me! These star-walkers bring tales of conflict beyond our world. They beg for our strength! But tell me, why should Orukai blood be spilled for the petty squabbles of soft-skins!?”
A roar of approval went up from the gathered Orukai. Grukor continued, his voice rising with passion. “Our world has its own battles, its own glory to be won. Why should we sacrifice our own for the schemes of those who would just as soon ally with our enemies?"
The crowd erupted in cheers, weapons clashing against shields in a deafening display of approval.
"Let them fight their wars!" he bellowed. "We are Orukai! We forge our own destiny!"
The Luminarian emissaries were escorted from the Sanctuary, their mission in tatters. They exchanged worried glances, hoping against hope that their Ulorian colleagues would fare better in their quest for allies.
Deep within the volcanic forges of Char, the Hall of Molten Glory pulsed with heat and anticipation. Rivers of lava flowed through intricately carved channels in the floor, casting an otherworldly orange glow across the assembled Stoneborn. The cavernous chamber, hewn from the living rock of the planet itself, echoed with the clash of tankards and the low rumble of conversation.
At the far end of the hall, upon a throne of obsidian and meteoric iron, sat Forge-King Thrain Ironfist. His craggy features seemed carved from the very mountain. His fingers stroked a long, braided beard of shimmer crystal that cascaded over his rocky chest. His eyes, sharp and calculating, were fixed upon a chessboard before him, where an intense game was underway with his jester, Grix.
Unlike his brethren, Grix was slight of build, his rocky skin smoothed and painted in garish colors. A crown of crystalline spikes adorned his head, tinkling softly as he contemplated his next move.
"Careful, my liege," Grix murmured, his voice surprisingly melodious for a being of stone. “Are you sure about that move? You’re not always as smart as you think.”
Thrain's expression remained impassive, but a low growl rumbled in his chest. "Mind your tongue, Grix," he warned, "lest I decide your head would make a fine paperweight."
Grix merely chuckled, a sound like pebbles in a stream. "Ah, but then who would tell you the truths you so desperately need to hear?"
Before Thrain could retort, the great doors of the hall swung open. A hush fell over the assembled Stoneborn as three Ulorian emissaries entered, their luminous wings spreading wide, fanning themselves in the oppressive heat.
The lead Asterae, her face a mask of ethereal beauty, approached the throne. "Forge-King Thrain," she began, her voice like the chiming of crystal bells, "we come seeking alliance in these dark times. Slayn's threat grows by the day, and only united can we hope to—"
"Spare me your flowery words," Thrain interrupted, his voice like grinding boulders. "You come to halls unbidden, seeking my sword. What does Uloria offer Char in return for our strength?"
The Asterae exchanged glances before the leader continued. "We offer access to our celestial libraries, knowledge of the cosmos that—"
"Knowledge?" Thrain scoffed. "What use have we for your star-charts and philosophies? We are Stoneborn. We forge our destiny in fire and iron."
"Then perhaps," another Asterae interjected, "you would like your Weaveways cut off next!?. Our warriors could shield Char from—"
Thrain's laughter, a sound like an avalanche, cut her off. "You presume to protect us? In our mountain homes, forged by the planet itself?"
As the Asterae struggled to find words, Thrain's mind raced. The High Kingdoms were shifting, alliances forming and breaking like waves upon the shore. Char had long stood apart, but now... perhaps now was the time to seize power, to reshape the very foundations of galactic politics. It would be so easy.
With a gesture, Thrain silenced the hall. He rose from his throne, towering over the Ulorian emissaries. "You come to us, speaking of threats and alliances," he rumbled. "But you fail to understand the true nature of power."
Thrain's voice rang out, cold and clear: "Kill them."
Before the Asterae could react, two massive Stoneborn guards rose behind them. With terrifying speed and efficiency, the guards seized the emissaries, and tore them apart. Their screams were cut short by the sickening sound of rending flesh and snapping bone.
As the echoes faded, the guards dropped their severed wings at Thrain's feet, the once-iridescent feathers now stained with blue blood, dark cinders and ash.
Thrain lifted a wing with disgust. "Grix," he commanded, "Send these things to Slayn, with my... compliments."
Grix bowed low, a manic grin splitting his face. "As you command, my king. Shall I include a note, perhaps? 'Greetings from Char, where angels fear to tread'?"
Thrain's eyes narrowed. "Your wit will be the death of you one day, Jester. But... yes. Tell Slayn that Char stands ready to align with true power."
As Grix bowed low, Thrain allowed himself a moment of silent contemplation. The first move had been made. Now, the true game could begin.
In the depths of Duskmoor's Necropolis, Arch-Lich Morvana glided between rows of hunched figures. The air thrummed with whispered incantations as hundreds of highly skilled necromancers combed through mounds of corrupted Weave-detritus. Their skeletal fingers, guided by dark magic, plucked at microscopic threads barely visible to the naked eye.
Morvana paused behind one worker, her ethereal form casting no shadow. "What have you found?" she inquired, voice dry as ancient parchment.
The necromancer held up a gossamer strand pulsing with sickly purple light. "Another aberration, my Queen. Its signature matches nothing in our archives."
Morvana's eyes burned with intensity as she examined the thread. She knew they were in a desperate race against time, each tiny fragment potentially holding the key to understanding the true threat facing the High Kingdoms.
Suddenly, the chamber doors burst open. Varax strode in, his bone armor clattering. In his arms, he carried a bundle wrapped in dark cloth.
"My Queen," he rasped urgently, "a message from Char." He unwrapped the bundle, revealing a pair of bloodstained, iridescent wings. "They... they claim to offer an alliance."
Morvana's eyes narrowed as she took in the grisly offering. "Char? The Stoneborn realm?" She turned from the death-sages, her robes swirling. "What game does their new king play? Why would he go against the rest of the High Kingdoms?"
Varax shifted uneasily. "He seeks to make his mark. He may see us as a worthy ally against the growing influence of Uloria and Etherveil.”
Morvana countered. "We know nothing of this King Thrain. His motivations are as opaque as the stone he's carved from."
Varax sighed. "But my Queen," Varax pressed, "we need allies. Even if they are Stoneborn. We cannot stand alone against the gathered Kingdoms."
Morvana's gaze bored into Varax. After a long moment, she spoke, her voice cold. "Very well. We'll create a small gap in our blockade. But know this, Varax - if you're wrong, it's your head that will adorn my throne room."
…..
The manipulation of the Weaveway blockade was a delicate operation, far more precise than its sealing. Morvana descended to the depths of Duskmoor, to a circular chamber directly beneath the Weaveway terminus. Here, the very air thrummed with energy, wisps of shadow dancing along the walls.
"This requires finesse, not force," Morvana murmured. She gestured, and three noble Grave Lords took positions around her, forming a perfect triangle.
As one, they began a low, eerie chant as their hands subtly moved as if threading a loom. The shadows in the room coalesced, forming a miniature projection of the weaveway and its rough barrier that floated in the sky high above.
Morvana's fingers then began to move with surgical precision, as she plucked at individual threads of necromantic energy. Sweat beaded on her brow as she worked. Creating a hole too large could weaken the entire structure; too small, and she feared it could collapse in on itself. The Grave Lords' chanting intensified, their voices strained as they helped Morvana maintain the delicate balance.
Finally, a tiny pinprick of light appeared in the shadow-model. Morvana exhaled slowly, relieved, but not done. She gestured to the others, as they all began to work in earnest, threading and rearranging the otherwise invisible magics that made up this vast blockade. The pinprick of light expanded a fraction of a millimeter. It was enough. Morvana gestured for a pause, and she raised her arms. Slowly the tiny little light floated upward, through the ceiling, and into the sky, expanding and growing in waves — until it merged with the barrier across the Weaveway far above.
Now, through her scrying orb, Morvana watched as a sliver of an opening grew in the great blockade, just wide enough for a single ship to squeeze through.
The waiting stonecraft from Char emerged almost immediately, dropping through the gap in the blockade and lowering slowly down to the Terminus below. Morvana clenched her fist. The opening snapped shut behind them, and the blockade was whole once more.
Morvana steadied herself against the wall, her breathing labored. This precise manipulation had taxed her far more than she had anticipated. But there was no time for rest. Whatever game Char was playing, Slayn had to be prepared
.……
The obsidian floor of the Grand Hall reflected the flickering green flames of the wall sconces, creating an eerie, shimmering effect that seemed to ripple with each movement. The cavernous chamber stretched upwards into darkness, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. At its center, upon a throne of bleached bone and black iron, sat Morvana. Her ethereal form seemed to both absorb and emit the sickly light, her hollow eyes fixed upon the delegation before her.
Thrain and his Stoneborn delegation, cloaked in dark robes, made their way down the center of the grand hall. Surrounding them stood rank upon rank of Slayn's undead soldiers. Grave Lords in ornate armor, their eye sockets glowing with necromantic energy, stood at attention. Behind them, rows of skeletal warriors gripped wickedly curved blades, their bones gleaming in the half-light. The Stoneborn delegation was vastly outnumbered, yet Thrain's posture remained relaxed, almost cocky.
"Welcome to Duskmoor, King Thrain," Morvana's voice echoed through the chamber, dry as ancient parchment. "To what do we owe this... unexpected pleasure?"
Thrain bowed with exaggerated courtesy. "The honor is ours, Arch-Lich. We come seeking to strengthen the bonds between our worlds in these troubled times."
"Curious," Morvana mused, her fingers tapping a rhythm on the arm of her throne. "Given recent events, one might think Char would be hesitant to align with Slayn."
"Ah, but in chaos lies opportunity, does it not?" Thrain's grin was sharp as a blade. "We've much to discuss, your highness. And to prove our loyalty, we bring you a gift.”
“Intriguing, but we do not seek your gifts or your flattery Stoneborn,” Morvana replied cautiously.
“Oh, but this gift, I think you’ll really be impressed by.” Thrain smiled rakishly, as he reached into his robes, and produced a small, pulsing orb. "The gift of oblivion, your highness."
In an instant, Thrain had hurled the orb to the ground, and it shattered with a blinding flash of light that turned night to day, creating a concussive wave that shook the very foundations of Duskmoor. A flurry of chaotic red weave-energies ripped out of the shattered orb, quickly melting anything that came into contact with the explosion. The obsidian floor liquefied instantly, blasting molten debris in all directions.
A shockwave of searing heat vaporized the front ranks of soldiers, turning their armor into superheated shrapnel. The Death Sages fought to resist with powerful magic, the runes carved on their exposed bones raging bright purple, only to be turned to ash. The undead skeletal and zombie warriors were unable to regenerate from the destructive energies tearing their bodies apart. The colossal obsidian pillars, weakened by the intense heat, began to collapse and rain rubble down onto the remaining Slayn soldiers. The proud hall of Duskmoor collapsed inward, burying the remains of Morvana's forces under tons of smoldering rubble.
Only Morvana, who, on instinct, had managed to disperse her body into ethereal shadows, was able to avoid the brunt of the explosion. She gasped for breath as her flesh reformed in the aftermath, but the very air seemed to burn, a choking miasma of dust and ash. The sounds of crumbling stone and agonized wails created a hellish cacophony.
Through the haze, she spotted Varax. Her loyal Deathwarden lay broken, half-buried under fallen masonry. His bone armor was shattered, revealing charred flesh underneath. A jagged piece of metal protruded from his chest, dark ichor pooling beneath him.
From the smoke, Thrain and his soldiers emerged, unscathed. Their stone-skin glowed like molten lava, the heat of the explosion seeming to have only empowered them.
"You expected me to die so easily!?" Morvana hissed, trying to catch her breath.
"Of course not," Thrain replied, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “What fun would there be in that? No, I simply wanted to level the playing field.”
Morvana raised her hands, dark energy coalescing between her palms. She snarled: "Your ambition dies here!"
She quickly incanted while throwing her arms forward, causing the energy from her palms to burst forth in a series of blackened daggers. Thrain responded by flicking them away with his hammer, then beginning to march forward while signalling his soldiers to halt, “she’s mine”.
Thrain then pounced and swung his hammer with terrifying speed, narrowly missing morvana as she dispersed into shadow. The necromancer would summon tendrils of decaying energy or spears of piercing shadow to try and subdue or just nick Thrain, but to no avail. For someone made of stone, he was fast, and was matching her speed and aggression. This continued on for what seemed like hours, until morvana managed to feign the cunning Stoneborn by half-forming her shadowy spears and switching to instead shoving him with a wave of shadows.
The Stoneborn king stumbled, momentarily off-balance. Seizing her advantage, Morvana unleashed a devastating torrent of death magic directly at Thrain. He barely got out of its way, the keening wail of decay nicking his shoulder, causing it to crumble into dust.
"It's over, Thrain," Morvana hissed, trying to catch her breath. She raised her hands, dark energy coalescing between her palms. "Your ambition dies here."
"Not yet, Arch-Lich," he growled.
Hidden mechanisms within Thrain’s vambraces whirred to life. From the ornate carvings on his armor, gossamer-thin chains made from pure blue Elementum threads sprang forth. They moved with impossible speed, weaving through the air like living things, and coiled around Morvana’s body, their touch searing like liquid fire.
Morvana screamed! She tried to phase into shadow, but where the chains touched, her misty outline solidified, becoming terrifyingly corporeal.
She writhed against her new restraints, but the chains tightened, glowing with an inner light that seemed to devour the darkness around them. No matter how much she struggled, no Necros magic came to her behest. Morvana’s face paled as she realised what was happening, her connection to Necros was being severed, snapping one by one like overstretched spider silk.
As she fell to her knees, the Stoneborn king retrieved his hammer. He stood over her, his face a mask of grim satisfaction.
Thrain called out to the undead reinforcements, as they had finally arrived: “Hear me! Your queen’s life is forfeit, unless the Weaveway is parted once more! She leaves Slayn alive with me, or we all die on this spot. Choose wisely!”
The soldiers hesitated, but Morvana simply nodded her head.
The soldiers parted. Thrain smiled, and then yanked on his leash, pulling Morvana to her feet, and dragging her along behind him.
The grand hall of the Celestial Citadel on Uloria was a marvel of breathtaking architecture. Towers of marble and pure golden light spiraled upwards, their peaks lost in the radiant glow that perpetually bathed the upper atmosphere. Asterae of all ranks gathered, looking down at the glimmering bridge that connects Ulorias weaveway to the cities central cathedral, their luminous wings creating a sea of shimmering colors.
High Arbiter Lyris Ithilwen sat upon her crystalline throne, her face a mask of fury as Thrain strode down the hall. Her guards pointed their gleaming weapons at the Stoneborn king, who seemed unperturbed by the hostility surrounding him.
"You dare enter our sacred halls?" Lyris hissed, rising from her throne. "After the butchery of our emissaries? Give me one good reason I should not unleash the Seraphim’s divine light to burn the stone from your bones, Forge-King?"
Thrain met her gaze unflinchingly, a smirk playing at the corners of his rocky mouth. Behind him, his beasts dragged a large, covered cage. "Because I come bearing a gift far greater than any life lost," he rumbled. With a dramatic flourish, he pulled away the cover. "Behold, the architect of this galactic turmoil!"
There, chained and weakened, was Arch-Lich Morvana.
A collective gasp rose from the gathered Asterae. Lyris herself seemed momentarily at a loss for words, her gaze shifting between the defeated Arch-Lich and the imposing figure of Thrain.
Thrain's smirk widened into a full grin. "Great ones, I have single-handedly saved the High Kingdoms from war. While others debated and postured, Char acted. We infiltrated Slayn, captured their leader, and brought her to face justice. The threat that loomed over us all now lies vanquished at your feet."
Murmurs rippled through the gathered host. Many Asterae looked upon Thrain with a newfound respect, while others remained wary of his methods.
Lyris descended from her throne, her wings unfurling to their full, impressive span. She circled Morvana's cage, her expression a mix of triumph and uncertainty. "The Seraphim's prophecy indeed spoke of a great evil being brought low," she mused.
She then spoke in a whisper, only for herself to hear, "But they also warned of shifting tides and hidden dangers."
She turned to Thrain, her eyes boring into him. "You have brought us the architect of chaos, Forge-King, and I thank you for that. But know this – your actions may very well have far-reaching consequences we cannot yet predict."
Thrain inclined his head, a gesture of respect that seemed at odds with the gleam in his eyes. "And what, pray tell, does Char receive in return for this great service?"
"What do you desire, Forge-King?"
Thrain's voice dropped to a low rumble, almost intimate in the vast hall. "Merely the love and adoration of the Asterae, High Arbiter. Is that too much to ask?"
Lyris raised an eyebrow, but decided not to press the point further.
Deep beneath Uloria's floating celestial cities, amidst the blasted ruins of a forgotten world, Grix stood in what was once a grand hall. Now, its crumbling walls and shattered dome told a story of fallen glory. A single oil drum burned in the center, casting flickering light across the desolate space. Outside, toxic ash fell like tainted snow, blanketing the world in a suffocating shroud.
Huddled around the fire, a group of cloaked figures clutched makeshift weapons, their forms hidden beneath heavy, tattered coats. Their bodies twisted by raw Potentus energy, each bore their own grotesque mutations – large horns, hardened carapace-like skin, extra eyes, or long beast-like claws. Their faces were maps of desperation and determination.
One of the Daemons, its back hunched, pried open a crate with clawed hands. The sound of splintering wood echoed off the damp stone walls.
"Careful now," Grix chided, his painted face split in a manic grin. "Wouldn't want to activate one of those beauties prematurely. Messy business, that."
The Daemon’s leader turned, revealing a face where cheekbones had erupted into bony spikes. Its eyes, lizard-like, blinked at Grix with a mixture of wariness and hope.
“If only they’re as powerful as you promise, imp.”
The Daemon turned and reached into the crate, and withdrew a sleek, obsidian-black staff. Its surface rippled like liquid metal, strange runes pulsing along its length with an inner light.
"A Weave disrupter," Grix explained, his voice surprisingly melodious for a being of stone. "One touch can disrupt an Asterae's connection to the Thread, leaving them as helpless as newborn babes. Care for a demonstration?" He gestured toward the Daemon rebels with a wink.
The Daemon leader's eyes narrowed. "You jest at your own peril, Stoneborn."
Grix's laughter rang out, a sound like pebbles in a stream. "My dear shadow-prince, jesting is what keeps me alive. That, and making lucrative deals with charming rebels such as yourselves."
Another Daemon hefted a compact device from a second crate, its surface a maze of intricate gears and pulsing crystals. "And this?"
"Ah, that little marvel?" Grix's eyes glittered. "It disrupts thread signatures. Plant it near one of those self-righteous Seraphim, and watch them flop about like fish on dry land. Hilarious, really."
The lead Daemon nodded, seemingly satisfied. He snapped his fingers, and two underlings lugged forward a heavy chest. It hit the ground with a resounding thud, the lid falling open to reveal a glittering pile of gold and precious gems.
"Your payment, as agreed," the Daemon hissed.
Grix sauntered over, plucking a large sapphire from the pile and holding it up to one of the bioluminescent patches. "My, my. You Daemons do have exquisite taste in shinies."
The Daemon leader's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "You Stoneborn have some nerve, delivering arms to Uloria's enemies right beneath their shining city. If you're caught—"
"If, if, if," Grix interrupted, wagging a finger. "Such an ugly word. I prefer 'when.' When we reshape this glittering cesspool of a planet. When you dance on the ashes of those feathered tyrants. When Char stands as the true power in the High Kingdoms." He tossed the sapphire in the air, catching it with a flourish. "Much more exciting, don't you think?"
The Daemon's eyes glowed with a mixture of amusement and wariness. "You play a dangerous game, jester."
Grix bowed low, his crystalline crown tinkling softly. "My dear friend, the game is all that matters. And trust me," he straightened, his grin now razor-sharp, "we've only just begun to play."
In her cell of pure light, Morvana closed her eyes, reaching out with what little power remained to her. The ethereal prison was designed to nullify her necromantic abilities.
In her mind's eye, she saw a memory from long ago –
The grand library of Etherveil, its shelves stretching impossibly high, filled with tomes of ancient knowledge. Two young women sat at a table piled high with books, their heads bent close together as they pored over a particularly arcane text.
Morvana, her face unlined by the ravages of necromantic magic, pointed excitedly at a passage. Vespera, her dark hair falling in waves around her face, nodded enthusiastically, quickly jotting down notes.
"We're close to a breakthrough," young Morvana whispered, her eyes shining with the thrill of discovery. "Just think, Vespera – we could revolutionize Weave theory!"
The memory faded, leaving Morvana alone in her glowing prison. She reached out, hoping against hope that some echo of that connection still remained. But there was only silence, and the crushing weight of her isolation.