A pale dawn broke across the jagged summit of Stormpeak, the frozen wind burning their cheeks as the Elemental Vanguards and Riven paused on a narrow ledge. Far below, the four realms lay woven into a patchwork of fields, forests, and seas—still sleeping in the new light of the Living Seed. Above them, the Shadow Cult's fortress loomed: obsidian battlements crowned with spires of twisted iron and storm-torn banners that snapped like warnings in the gale.
Riven folded the map and slipped it into his robe. "This ancient stronghold was carved by a cabal of warlocks," he said, voice nearly lost in the roar of the wind. "They've lain hidden here for generations—feeding on fear and whispering corruption into every stone. Today, we end their reign."
Lior inhaled the thin air, flame flickering weakly at his fingertips. "Let my fire clear the path of ice and shadow." He stepped forward, trailing sparks that melted frost in gentle arcs along the rocky ledge.
Sylas flung his cloak about him and called to the wind. A swirling eddy pulled at his hair, probing every crevice above. "I will scout ahead," he offered, lifting into a gust that bore him over the sheer precipice to the fortress's ramparts. Below, he spotted spike-lined battlements and glaring sentinels of black steel.
Corwin struck his conch, summoning a ribbon of mist that wound around their boots and softened each footfall. "I will watch our flank," he said, sending a tendril of water vapor swirling ahead to seek hidden traps in the snow-slipped trail.
Bram planted his earthroot staff in the ridge's edge. Living roots sprouted into the rock face, carving a secure stair of stone and wood. "Follow the path I forge," he called, as the others descended into the narrow gully that led to a half-buried postern gate.
Together they regrouped beneath the iron-bound door, its runes etched in every element—but now tainted with a dark overlay. Sylas drifted down beside them, wind dying to a hush. "Sentinel wards flank this door," he said. "I counted six runic sigils carved into the stone."
Riven drew his dagger. "We must deactivate them in unison—any hesitation, and the wards will unleash a torrent of shadow."
They formed a circle. Lior pressed his warm palm against the first rune, igniting it in gentle flame until the dark overlay cracked and fell away. Sylas whispered a breath into the second, eroding the taint with a swirl of pure air. Corwin poured a drop of conch-water across the third, washing it clean. Bram struck his staff against the fourth rune, and living root tendrils wove through the carved grooves, knitting them back into harmless earth.
Two runes remained. Lior and Sylas exchanged a glance—then Sylas called the wind high above, and Lior let flame dance within it. Their combined fire-wind lanced the penultimate rune, then Corwin's water and Bram's roots dispatched the final ward in a cascade of steam and sprouting green.
With a thunderous creak, the postern gate swung inward, revealing a short tunnel lined with obsidian mirrors—carved by the Cult to spy on intruders. As they stepped inside, each guardian saw their own reflection twisted by shadow: Lior ablaze with uncontrollable flame, Sylas swept in a hurricane of doubt, Corwin drowning beneath endless waves, Bram crumpled by his own weight.
Riven's voice rang out, steady and urgent. "Trust what stands before you, not what you see." He lunged forward and shattered the nearest mirror with a strike of his dagger, scattering dark shards that hissed and evaporated.
One by one, the mirrors shattered under the guardians' resolve. The final reflection dissolved into a beam of white light that revealed a vaulted courtyard beyond—its paving cracked but overgrown with living ivy, moon-worn statues of past cult leaders toppled and mossed.
Lior stepped through first, flame flickering at his side. "They've fallen," he said, voice echoing. "Now their fortress is ours."
Sylas joined him, wind riffling his cloak. "Onward, to the throne room."
Corwin swept the mist aside, revealing an altar of black stone at the courtyard's center—a circle of carved shadows awaiting the Living Seed's final purification.
Bram planted his staff into the ivy-choked paving. "We stand as one," he declared. "And here we end this at last."
Behind them, the postern gate snapped shut. Ahead, the courtyard lay silent but watchful. Five figures—four imbued with flame, wind, tide, and stone, and one bearing the Wellspring's living lantern—prepared to pass into the dark heart of Stormpeak's fortress and confront the last ember of corruption that dared challenge Aetherion's unity.