Location: The coast, looking toward the sea
They called it a foundation.
A place where the great Orders of magic once stood together—Red, Blue, Green, Grey. Balance woven into structure, harmony held in spell and stone. But what we found beneath the Wizard Tower… it was not harmony. It was fracture hidden beneath tradition, truth sealed beneath fear.
And now I can’t stop hearing the echoes.
Some were voices—recordings etched in forgotten glyphs, the warnings of mages who feared where power might lead. Others were older: grief soaked into the stone itself, magic laced with memory, truths that resisted being buried. The Grey Order was real. Neutral, curious, ancient. Not bound by god or dogma—but that was what made them dangerous to those who wished to rewrite the world with certainties.
Thalyria was quiet when she found the seal bearing their sigil. She ran her fingers over it like a forgotten hymn. I could tell it shook her faith, even if she said nothing. Jahn, too. He kept a brave face, but I saw the way he lingered in the shadow of that broken altar—how his hands twitched, not toward his sword, but toward answers. And Wolfthora… she did not mock. Not here. Even she felt it, I think—the weight of history buried beneath doctrine, beneath rubble and silence.
I wonder what Seren would say.
She has always asked us to feel before we name. To listen to the shape of light before binding it with law. What would she say, seeing what the Blue Order had done? Hiding the truth. Fracturing their alliance. Condemning knowledge to darkness because it didn’t fit the new world. Would she forgive them?
Would I?
I don’t know.
There was a moment, deep in the archives, when the ward shattered and that lingering spirit lashed out—not with malice, but with desperation. It didn’t want to hurt us. It wanted to be remembered. I sang to it. Not a spell. Not a command. A memory. One of Seren’s lullabies, laced with the Light. And it calmed. Not because I was powerful, but because I saw it.
That’s what this all comes back to, doesn’t it?
Seeing.
Not with the eyes. Not just with magic. With heart. With intention. With willingness to hold truths that might fracture the world we thought we knew.
I think that’s why I trust them—Jahn, Thalyria, even Wolfthora. Not because they believe what I believe. But because they are still willing. Willing to ask, to feel, to change. And that is more than I can say for many who preach Light.
The sea is calm tonight. I sit where the cliff meets the wind, listening to gulls circle and waves lap stone. I can still feel the hum of that chamber beneath the Tower, like something ancient breathed through me and left its mark. Maybe it did. Maybe I am marked now—not by power, but by remembrance.
We’ve agreed to keep going. The map we uncovered—inked with ancient runes, pointing east—might lead to the next shard of the truth. We do not chase relics. We chase understanding.
And still, I pray. Not for answers. But for clarity. For strength to walk with eyes open. For compassion to stand between orders, between beliefs, between the wounded and the world that hurt them.
There is so much still buried.
But I carry light.
And Light remembers.
—Nyssarra
