The Moonwell no longer glowed.
Ves'Sariel knelt alone beneath the arch of Ash'myra's highest spire, her fingers spread over marble slick with frost. The sky above was choked with clouds. No stars. No moon. No answer.
She had prayed for hours.
The wind had died. The brazier flames at the temple's edge barely stirred.
"Elune," she whispered, voice hollow. "Why won't you speak to me?"
Silence.
Again.
She swallowed and bowed lower. Her silver hair spilled over her shoulders like melted starlight. The water in the well should have shimmered at her touch. It had once. But that light was gone now, fled like everything else.
Only the cold remained.
"I did everything you asked," Ves'Sariel murmured, trembling. "I led them. I taught them. I listened when others faltered. When the Fourth War ended and the stars fell silent, I stayed. I didn't look away."
And still, she was alone.
She closed her eyes and leaned forward—forehead to stone. Her lips moved, repeating the prayers she had known since childhood. But the words felt brittle now. Outdated. Like echoes meant for a goddess who had already turned her back.
She almost didn't hear it.
That faint voice. That whisper. Not in the ears, but in the bones.
You never left me.
She flinched.
The air felt too warm all of a sudden. Sweet. Cloying. Like flowers blooming too late in winter. She looked up—but the well remained still. The temple empty.
"You're not Her," she said quietly.
No. But I listen.I remember what you've given.
The brazier flared. Once. Then again. Gold light shifting to violet. Her shadow on the marble stretched unnaturally long—reaching toward the altar steps.
Ves'Sariel stood slowly, eyes narrowing. "This place is sacred. You don't belong here."
The whisper curved around her like silk.
But you called. And I answered.
The Moonwell stirred, not with water, but shadow. Thin tendrils coiled upward, drifting toward her wrists, her shoulders, her throat.
She didn't pull back.
Not this time.
Instead, she closed her eyes—and remembered Nyxia.
The huntress had tried to stop her. Had stood in that very archway, voice low, face drawn with hurt.
"This isn't the answer. You think it's clarity, but it's hunger. And it doesn't love you."
"Then it's no different from the goddess who abandoned me."
That had been the last time they spoke.
Nyxia had walked away—bow in hand, sorrow in her step.
And Ves'Sariel had stayed.
"I begged her to stay," she whispered. "I wasn't ready to let go."
But you did.
The voice agreed. But there was no malice in it. Only understanding. Only invitation.
The tendrils touched her skin.
And the ache in her chest—the gnawing hollow left by betrayal, grief, and silence—eased.
Not healed.
But filled.
Her eyes opened.
Eclipse light flickered in her irises, swallowing the violet of her kaldorei birthright.
The temple groaned. Far below, she heard footsteps. Sister-priestesses. Alarmed voices. Rising fear.
But she stood still, transfixed by the reflection in the well: a woman radiant and terrible, clothed in unraveling moonlight and shadow. Her lips curled into a soft, knowing smile.
Then she whispered a name.
"Nyxia."
The shadows surged.
And Ash'myra screamed.