The summons came not by letter, nor by courier. It came through the Wellspring itself.
As David walked along the high ridges above the Lake of Auran, the mana twisted strangely. Not in rejection—this time, it formed a path. It gathered in streams visible to the eye, curving midair like ribbons of light.
He followed it.
The higher he climbed, the thicker the air became—not in pressure, but in presence. He could feel thoughts that weren't his. Names he'd never spoken. Eyes he'd never seen.
The Well was being watched.
By nightfall, he reached the Sanctum of Accord.
A tower with no stairs, no doors—only a flat ring of stone embedded with seven crests, each glowing with ancient light. As his feet touched the first, the entire ring responded, rising silently into the air.
He said nothing.
The platform carried him up, through a field of drifting stars, into a floating chamber encased in translucent crystal. Beyond the walls, he saw nothing but sky—a space suspended above the world.
And there, waiting for him, were seven figures.
The Council of Wills.
Each figure radiated a different kind of mana.
One burned like the sun — the Pyrelord of Vashan.
One flowed like oceans — the Seeress of Nale.
Another shimmered like wind — the Whisper-Monk of Thedrel.
And so on — each a master, each a leader of their people, a wielder of immense ancestral power.
David recognized them from texts. From legends.
And yet, none looked at him with reverence.
Only with calculated curiosity.
"You are the Wellborn," spoke the Pyrelord. His voice crackled with heat.
"I am David," he replied.
The Seeress leaned forward. "You have stirred the Hollow's gaze. Do you understand what that means?"
"I do."
The Whisper-Monk floated an inch above his seat. "And yet you continue to grow."
"Should I not?"
The room hummed with tension.
A fourth figure—old, blindfolded, with skin like parchment—spoke. "Do you know how many Wells we've buried?"
David's eyes flickered.
"Yes."
The council fell quiet.
Then the Pyrelord stood.
"We did not call you to ask permission. We called you to judge."
David did not flinch.
"I am not here to plead," he said.
The Pyrelord's flames rose. "And yet you stand before seven whose combined will could tear you from this world in an instant."
David stepped forward.
"Then why haven't you?"
The fire dimmed slightly.
The Seeress sighed. "Because we don't know if you're the cure… or the end."
They questioned him for hours.
About his awakening.
His battles.
The Hollow.
His training with the Ironmarked.
His connection to Maelin.
Every answer they tested—not just with ears, but with mana. Truthseekers sat in the shadows, binding his words to runes, watching for deviation.
But David didn't lie.
He didn't need to.
Because everything he had done, he had done with clarity—even when that clarity meant loss.
Then came the test.
The Seeress opened her palm and a single seed floated above it. Wrapped in pure mana. Encased in a cocoon of potential.
"This is the Seed of Galt," she said. "It will take root in whoever touches it—but it only blooms for those with no shadow in their core."
David stepped forward.
The Pyrelord narrowed his eyes. "If the Hollow has touched you, it will be your end."
David did not hesitate.
He touched the seed.
The chamber stilled.
For a moment… nothing.
Then the seed bloomed.
A small white flower with petals like woven starlight.
And within it, a heartbeat.
The Seeress whispered, stunned. "It awakened…"
Even the Pyrelord looked shaken.
David lowered his hand.
"I didn't come here to be judged," he said softly. "I came to tell you something."
The Whisper-Monk leaned in.
"I'm listening."
David looked at each of them in turn.
"The Hollow feeds on absence. On forgetting. On hunger left unchecked."
They nodded.
"I am not its opposite. I am its reminder."
The old blindfolded man spoke again, voice softer now.
"Then let us offer you something in return."
From the center of the council, a pedestal rose—bearing a sphere carved from glass and light. Within it danced seven flames, each of a different color.
"This is the Eye of Accord," he said. "It contains the ancestral wills of each great house. A guide. A burden."
David accepted it.
And as he touched it, he felt all of them — the hopes, the failures, the weight of those who had come before. It did not strengthen him.
It deepened him.
He bowed slightly.
"I will not waste this."
As the platform descended back to the mortal world, David stood taller than before—not in pride, but in purpose.
He was not alone.
The world had not abandoned him.
And now, it had entrusted him with more than power.
It had entrusted him with its memory.
But far below the Sanctum, deep in the fault lines of the eastern continent, the Hollow howled.
For the first time in centuries, it had failed to corrupt a Wellborn.
And in its fury, it moved to awaken something that had long slumbered.
An ancient husk.
A vessel once like David, now a living void.
It would send him forward.
And the world would learn whether the Well could survive its own reflection.