The obsidian shard pulsed in Seraphin’s palm. Not with heat, but with a cold, hungry thrum. It was less a physical object, more a condensed void. Energy coiled within, a chaotic maelstrom aching for release. His own raw mana, once a vibrant river, now felt like a paltry stream beside it. The Star didn’t just absorb; it *assimilated*. It offered power, yes, but demanded transformation. Seraphin’s vision flickered. He saw nebulae collapse, stars ignite, galaxies spin into nothingness. The genesis of creation and the quiet sigh of oblivion, all in a fleeting instant. *This is beyond magic*, a thought echoed in his mind, not his own. *This is fundament.* He clenched his fist around the relic. Pain flared, then dulled, replaced by an exquisite, terrible euphoria. His skin tingled. Tiny, almost imperceptible obsidian veins snaked across his forearm, then vanished. He focused. A fragment of broken rock lay nearby, a jagged spur of the necropolis wall. He extended a trembling hand. A whisper of forgotten incantations brushed against his consciousness. He didn't speak them. He *felt* them. The language of the progenitor, an ancient hum woven into the very fabric of existence. The Star responded. A tendril of black energy, thin as spun shadow, snaked from his fingertips. It wasn't a spell he knew. It was raw, unrefined arcane force. The rock spire shattered. Not with an explosion, but with a silent, internal collapse. It imploded, crumbling to dust. The dust itself seemed to shrink, fading into nothingness. Seraphin gasped. That was utter disintegration. Not just a blast, but an erasure. The Collegium’s most powerful arcanists strained for such effects, and even then, their magic left residue. The Star left only void. His heart hammered. Fear and exhilaration warred within him. This power was monstrous. It was beautiful. It was *his*. He pulled his hand back, the Star still humming in his grasp. The air around him felt thinner, charged with residual arcane potential. He closed his eyes, centering himself. The echoes of the progenitor’s power receded, leaving him with only the Star’s steady, cold thrum. He had to understand it. Not just wield it, but comprehend its origin, its purpose. He scanned the necropolis chamber. It was vast, carved from black rock, riddled with forgotten runes. Most were faded, eroded by time. But one symbol, etched into the floor at the chamber’s center, gleamed with an inner light. It was a stylized eye, pupil an elongated tear-drop. Surrounding it, six points, radiating like an imperfect star. The Star of the Progenitor, as ancient texts vaguely described. Seraphin knelt. He pressed the Obsidian Star against the carved symbol. The relic flared. Black light erupted, not outward, but *inward*, into the stone itself. The floor began to glow. Runes across the chamber walls ignited, one after another, tracing arcane circuits. A low groan vibrated through the very bedrock. Images flooded his mind. Not visions, but direct sensory input. The feel of stellar winds, the chill of interstellar space. The vast, indifferent expanse between worlds. He saw a titanic struggle, forms of pure light clashing with beings of suffocating shadow. He recognized the Collegium’s symbol, distorted, twisted into something predatory. Then, a single, impossibly ancient face, eyes like galaxies, filled his mind. The progenitor. It spoke, but not with words. With pure, unadulterated knowledge. *The betrayal is deeper than you know, child of the ephemeral world. The Collegium seeks to shackle not just magic, but destiny itself. They have corrupted the very ley lines, turning the world into a vast, silent battery for their ascension.* Seraphin reeled back, staggering. The Obsidian Star detached from the floor, its light dimming. The runes on the walls flickered, then died. The ancient face, the horrifying truth, evaporated. He choked for air. Corrupted ley lines? The Collegium powered by the world’s essence? This was not just betrayal; it was cosmic desecration. Their pursuit of power wasn’t just self-serving, it was world-ending. He looked at the Obsidian Star. It hummed softly, a silent promise. The progenitor’s essence was more than a weapon. It was an antidote. A key to unraveling the Collegium’s ultimate design. He had to leave. The necropolis felt confining, its ancient truths too potent to absorb all at once. He needed the sky, the wind, the reality of the Shattered Isles to ground him. He started moving, retracing his steps through the labyrinthine passages. The glow of the Obsidian Star, held discretely, illuminated the path. Bones of forgotten arcanists, ancient relics, and spectral echoes watched his progress. They seemed to whisper approval. Or perhaps, pity. He reached the entrance to the deeper tunnels, the collapsed section he’d barely squeezed through before. Now, it looked impassable. A mountain of rubble, rock, and desiccated roots blocked the way. He gripped the Star. No more subtlety. He channeled its power, not into destruction, but into raw force. His eyes glowed with a faint, obsidian light. He roared, a sound torn from his renewed lungs. A wave of concussive force erupted from him, a silent, invisible surge. The rubble shifted, groaned, then *moved*. The mountain of debris bucked. Rocks flew. Dust exploded. The passage, once choked, now stood open, a tunnel of escape. It wasn't elegant magic, but brute, untamed power. He pushed through the newly cleared path, climbing towards the surface. The oppressive chill of the necropolis gave way to the biting, cold wind of the Shattered Isles. The surface was a ruin. Jagged spires of rock pierced a perpetual grey sky. The ground was scarred, barren earth, crisscrossed with fissures that occasionally bled faint, sickly green light. The air tasted of ash and ozone. Seraphin blinked against the harsh light. The Obsidian Star seemed to quiet further in the open air, as if absorbing the bleakness around it. This was his prison, his exile. But no longer his tomb. He started walking. No clear destination, only a burning need to understand. He needed information. Where did the Collegium’s corrupted ley lines converge? How did one dismantle such a vast, insidious network? Days blurred into a monotonous trek across the desolate landscape. He subsisted on what little game he could snare and the occasional nutrient paste he’d salvaged from his hurried exile pack. The Obsidian Star warmed him against the frigid nights, a small, dark sun in his palm. He practiced, cautiously. He learned to control the Star’s power, to condense it, to refine it. He could solidify shadows into razor-sharp blades, conjure fleeting illusions that pulsed with the void, and even, with immense effort, mend minor wounds. His true power, the complete disintegration, he reserved. That was for the Collegium. For those who had betrayed him. One afternoon, a glint caught his eye. A shard of polished steel, embedded in a crag of black rock. Too bright, too regular for the natural landscape. A ruin. He approached with caution. It was a partially collapsed structure, half-buried in scree. Its walls were made of a dull, grey metal, scarred by what looked like ancient magical bombardment. An old outpost, perhaps. A relic of the War of Mages, centuries past. As he drew closer, a guttural growl echoed from within. Not a beast’s. Something intelligent. Something desperate. He paused, hand tightening on the Obsidian Star. He could bypass it. His new power offered options. But something tugged at him. A faint, nagging curiosity. He pushed aside a warped metal plate that served as a makeshift door. Inside, the air was stale, reeking of sweat and old blood. A single, flickering ember glowed in a crudely constructed brazier. A figure hunched by the fire. A man, if the tattered robes and skeletal frame were any indication. His skin was parchment-thin, his hair a tangled mess of white and grey. One leg was grotesquely swollen, bound with filthy rags. “Greetings,” Seraphin said, his voice raspy from disuse. The man started, a jolt of pain twisting his features. He scrambled back, pressing himself against the far wall, eyes wide with fear. But his gaze wasn't on Seraphin’s face. It was on the faint, obsidian glow emanating from his hand. “The… the Night-Eater,” the man croaked, his voice a dry whisper. “It is true, then. They called you out into the wastes, but you have found… its heart.” Seraphin frowned. “Night-Eater? Who are you?” The man’s trembling hand reached for a long, ornate staff leaning against the wall. Its head was carved into the likeness of a snarling beast, its eyes made of chipped amber. “My name is Kael. And I warn you, boy. That thing you hold… it consumes. And it calls to others. Others who seek its power for themselves.” Before Seraphin could question him further, a high-pitched shriek tore through the silence of the wastes. It came from outside, chilling and predatory. The shriek grew louder, closer, accompanied by the thudding of heavy footsteps. A cacophony of snarls followed. Kael's eyes widened in horror. “They found us! The Carrion Hounds of the Crimson King! They smell magic… and they want the Night-Eater!” He tried to stand, his injured leg giving way, sending him sprawling to the dirt floor. “Run, boy! Flee! You cannot fight them all!” Seraphin looked from the terrified man to the Obsidian Star, which pulsed with renewed intensity. The relic was drawing something to him. Something ancient. Something dangerous. He heard the scratching of claws on metal, the snuffling of monstrous noses at the warped door. His escape was blocked. He didn't run. A cold, clear resolve settled in his chest. “Tell me about the Crimson King, Kael,” he commanded, his voice sharp with a new authority. “And his hounds. Quickly.”

The First Glimmer