CHAPTER 498: VISION

Even in the vision, Lindarion could feel him. A will so absolute it pressed against his soul.

"The flame burns too long, and you cage it," Dythrael said. "The roots drink too deep, and you call it balance. But this world was meant to move, not stagnate. You would rather bind it in chains of eternity than let it live and die."

The silver-flamed being lifted his hand, the glow brightening. "Because to you, ’living’ is devouring."

Dythrael smiled. "All life devours. You of all should know that."

He raised a finger. The light around the elves began to darken, one by one. Cracks formed across the plain, bleeding darkness that hissed like breath. The fledgling Tree trembled.

And then, just as Lindarion felt the world begin to collapse, someone stepped in front of him.

A woman. Her hair white as snow, her eyes bright blue, the same hue as moonlit ice. She was not of this vision, not part of the memory, but present nonetheless. Her form wavered like a projection.

Luneth.

Her expression was grim. "Lindarion... this isn’t the past. It’s what’s anchored below Dythrael’s seal. He draws from it, feeds on the memory of creation."

He turned to her, his pulse racing. "Then this... this place..."

"Is the fracture," she said. "The point where god and root met, and the first seal was born. You shouldn’t have entered it alone."

The vision shuddered violently. The Hollow Sun above cracked, spilling rivers of golden light. Dythrael’s gaze turned, just slightly, and even through the illusion, it felt as if he were staring directly at them.

Lindarion reached for Luneth’s arm, his fingers passed through air. "Luneth!"

Her form flickered, dissolving. "Find the Tower’s core," she said, voice fading. "Before he—"

The world shattered.

The light inverted again, and he was standing once more before the gate, his hand still pressed against its surface. Ashwing and Nysha were at his sides, both tense, their weapons half-drawn.

Ashwing blinked rapidly. "You just froze up for like thirty seconds. Your eyes were glowing weird."

Lindarion lowered his hand, his chest tight. "It wasn’t a vision," he said quietly. "It was a warning."

Nysha frowned. "From who?"

He looked toward the inverted tower, now pulsing more violently than before. The veins of light running into it had turned crimson. "From her," he said softly. "And from the seal itself."

Ashwing exhaled a thin plume of smoke. "So, what now?"

Lindarion looked at the tower’s door as it slowly began to open. Beyond it was only blinding white.

"Now," he said, "we see what the gods left behind."

The gates parted, and the Hollow trembled as if in anticipation.

The gates of the inverted tower opened with the sound of sighing wind. Not a creak, not a groan, a sigh, like the breath of something waking from a sleep too long. The light pouring from within was not warm. It was pale and hollow, the color of a dying star.

Lindarion stepped first. Ashwing followed, wings tucked tight to his body. Nysha’s boots made no sound against the obsidian floor.

The inside of the tower was a maze of mirrors and glass, if glass could think. Every surface reflected them, yet in each reflection, something was slightly wrong. In one, Lindarion’s hair was still black. In another, Nysha’s eyes were gold instead of crimson. In a third, Ashwing was gone entirely.

"Great," the dragon muttered. "I always love when the walls start lying."

Lindarion ignored him, gaze sweeping the vast hall. The walls curved inward, spiraling upward into infinity. Each layer was carved with runes that moved when unobserved, like writing that refused to stay still.

[System Synchronization Attempt Detected.]

[Source: Tower Construct—Divine Grade.]

[Status: Partial Link Established.]

The system’s text flickered faintly across Lindarion’s vision, then shifted. The voice that came after was not mechanical, it was soft. Female.

"You carry the breath of the Root and the Fire. I remember that song."

Lindarion froze. "Who speaks?"

The voice resonated through the mirrored hall. "Once, I was Elarian, the Weaver of the First Seal. The others called me the Mirror of Dawn. But that was before the fracture, before he came."

Dythrael. The thought rose unbidden, heavy as stone.

Nysha scanned the walls, her fingers grazing her blade. "Elarian? That name doesn’t appear in any record."

"Because the gods erased what they feared," the voice replied. "Not all creators were meant to be remembered. I was one of them."

Lindarion’s golden eyes narrowed. "If you’re real, show yourself."

A ripple passed through the tower, like breath against glass. From one of the mirrors, light condensed, spiraling into form. A woman stepped forward, her body translucent, woven from strands of pale radiance. Her hair shimmered like spun crystal, and her eyes were twin voids rimmed with light.

"Real enough," she said, her tone neither proud nor bitter. "Though what you see is only an echo. My body perished when the Seal was first drawn."

Lindarion studied her silently. "You’re part of the mechanism that keeps Dythrael contained."

"Part?" She smiled faintly, sad. "I am the mechanism."

The mirrors brightened, and suddenly the walls were no longer showing reflections, they were showing memories. Elves of the First Age weaving light through their veins, gods shaping stars into weapons, the birth of the first divine realms. And then, the fall. Dythrael tearing through the sky, his body half shadow, half fire. The gods dying one by one.

Elarian turned to face the vision, her voice lowering. "When the gods realized they could not kill him, they sought to divide him instead. To tear his essence across worlds, scatter his hunger through eternity. But to bind something infinite, they needed an anchor. A soul that could hold the weight of both creation and ruin."

Nysha’s voice was barely a whisper. "You."

She nodded. "And for a time, it worked. But the seal was not eternal. Roots shift, trees grow, gods fade. When your world tree awoke again, so too did the fracture."

Lindarion took a slow breath. "You’re saying the Tree’s awakening... unsealed part of Dythrael?"

"Not just part." Her gaze turned on him, bright and unbearably gentle. "You, heir of Eldorath, carry the root that touched his flame. You are the balance the gods never finished weaving."

Ashwing looked between them. "Okay, wait, what does that mean, exactly? Is he like... a piece of the seal or something?"

Elarian’s expression softened, but her eyes dimmed. "He is both cage and key."