The Crimson Throne Room of the Kingdom of Aurelion stood quiet—too quiet.
King Vaelrix Arcthane, Sovereign of Flame, read the report with trembling fingers. His breath steamed in fury despite the furnace-warmed air of his chamber.
"The Originis... have awakened?"
A scout knelt, his face pale and soaked with ash. "Y-Yes, Your Majesty. Not just the boy. He patched all six Pillar Heirs. They've reclaimed their ancestral script."
Vaelrix's golden eyes narrowed.
"Do they know what they've done?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. The world felt the awakening. Sanctum's spire flared for three nights. We... believe the System blinked."
A terrible silence followed. Then:
"Bring me the prisoners of war," Vaelrix said softly.
"Your Majesty—"
"Now."
Moments later, twenty mages—bound and bloodied—were dragged in. They were taken in minor skirmishes near the Verdant Border, citizens and soldiers alike.
Without warning, King Vaelrix raised his hand.
A sigil flared.
And fire—clean, absolute fire—roared across the chamber.
There were no screams.
Only ash.
"If the Originis think they can rewrite the system…" he whispered, "...then let them witness what happens when you defy flame."
News of the massacre reached Sanctum by dusk.
Ari stood in silence as a glowing sigil-tome broadcasted the image of what remained: scorched walls, ash silhouettes, melted bindings.
The room fell cold.
Lysira stood trembling. "That bastard… they were non-combatants."
Eluin's hands curled into fists. "This wasn't war. This was fear."
Cerys looked at Ari—and what she saw made her heart stutter.
Ari's face was expressionless.
Too expressionless.
His eyes, however, were bright—and blazing.
"I will go."
Everyone turned.
"You can't," Lysira said. "We just got you back. You're not an heir anymore. You're Originis. If something happens to you—"
"Then let it," Ari replied, voice level. "This isn't about me anymore."
"They think slaughter will stop truth from surfacing. I won't let that stand."
Cerys stepped forward. "You're the patcher of the Code, Ari. You aren't meant to fight this war. You're meant to win it another way."
He looked at her—and for a moment, his anger cracked into sadness.
"I don't want to fight, Cerys. But if I don't show them that truth has teeth, they'll keep burning the innocent."
That night, under the eclipsed twin moons, Sanctum's War Council convened.
The six Pillar Heirs attended.
The King himself—a tall, calm figure dressed in constellation-weaved armor—presided.
Ari entered the chamber last.
Every noble, general, and tactician turned as he approached the center seat—a seat that once belonged to the Founder of the Weave.
He did not hesitate.
He sat.
"The Aurelion Kingdom has declared their fear," Ari began.
"Not with speeches. Not with borders. But with murder."
"The war has already started. We can either mourn the ashes… or stand between the fire and the world."
Silence.
Then:
Primira stood. "Then let it be known… Vastelune stands with Originis."
Thalen of Obelmar: "So do we. Stone does not forget its shape."
Kael Duskreign: "Let them fear shadows. We remember what they erased."
One by one, they stood. Six heirs. One Originis.
Ari looked around.
They were no longer just bloodlines.
They were restored legacies.
"Then let's not waste time," he said. "Prepare for battle."
Later that evening, Lysira found Ari alone in the Sanctum tower garden, gazing at the sigil-stars.
"I still think you're reckless," she muttered.
He smirked. "I know."
She crossed her arms. "If you die, I'll kill you."
Then, unexpectedly, she hugged him from behind.
"So don't."
Moments later, Cerys appeared. Her eyes met Ari's—and something silent passed between them.
"We'll be by your side," she said.
"But you lead the way."
Ari looked to the stars—the ancient constellation of Originis pulsing faintly.
"Then let's show them what the System truly fears."