Requiem of the Awakened

The rain in Sector 9 never stopped.

Not real rain, but a programmed atmospheric cycle engineered by the Guild to keep their relic site hidden beneath a curtain of storms.

They called the place Sanctuary.

But it was anything but.

Buried beneath layers of Echo-dampening fields, guarded by artificial Echo Sentinels and Guild-melded constructs, Sanctuary held one of the oldest pieces of pre-Guild tech ever recovered: a Monolith Core.

It wasn't active.

Not publicly.

But Malik had seen its pulse.

And it didn't beat like a machine.

It beat like a heart.

He stood now beneath a camouflaged ridge with Naomi, Elaris, Anacaona, and three new coalition allies: Juro from the Dagger Syndicate, an ex-Guild flamecaster named Vessa, and the quietest of them all—Skane, a Shifter who hadn't spoken since pledging loyalty at the Parliament.

Naomi's flames shimmered blue in the mist.

"This is going to be loud," she said.

"No," Malik replied.

"This is going to be heard."

The plan was precision: no army, no storming of gates.

This was a surgical strike.

Three phases.

Phase One—Echo disruptors at three points around Sanctuary's perimeter to short-circuit Guild suppression fields.

Phase Two—a rapid strike team would breach the outer wards, disable any defensive Summon Anchors, and gain entry to the Core vault.

Phase Three—Malik would descend alone.

Because what lay beneath couldn't risk encountering the wrong mind.

It needed someone… remembered.

Juro moved with the silence of an assassin's regret. One by one, he placed the disruptors at the base of the tri-arched storm pylons.

Elaris covered him, carving sigils mid-air to deflect any long-range scrying.

Naomi and Vessa synchronized their resonance fields, blending heat with anti-Echo static. The storm recoiled, unsure of what it was detecting.

Anacaona stood at the forward breach line, her spear humming at a frequency that turned invisible surveillance nodes to dust.

Malik waited.

And when the last green light blinked—

He moved.

Sanctuary's outer walls were alive.

Not stone.

Flesh and memory.

The Guild had wrapped the Monolith Vault in a living Echo barrier—one that responded to intention more than action.

So Malik walked forward without hiding his presence.

The barrier twisted.

Hesitated.

And parted.

Inside, the air was… clean.

Too clean.

No humidity.

No scent.

No life.

It was like stepping into a dream someone had left behind.

The walls pulsed faintly with silver light, veins of humming crystal snaking through every surface. Glyphs that hadn't been written in ten thousand years glowed with awareness.

And at the center—

The Core.

A pillar of obsidian and glass, stretching floor to ceiling, floating without support, rotating soundlessly.

And as Malik approached—

It stopped.

The rest of the team waited at the upper junction.

Only Skane followed.

Silent.

Breathing oddly.

Malik paused halfway down the steps.

"You weren't sent by the Parliament."

Skane looked up, eyes rippling with unnatural liquid.

"No," he said at last.

"I was sent by the ones who came before."

The disguise fell.

Skane's form shimmered, then collapsed into an amalgamation of shadow and smoke. His body unraveled into threads of memory, coiling upward into a vaguely humanoid mass with too many eyes and not enough meaning.

Malik didn't flinch.

"You're a Seer Wraith."

The creature tilted its shifting head. "I am what remains of a failed prophecy."

Malik clenched his fist.

"And you've been hiding inside us since Parliament."

"I am not here to kill you, Crownless."

"Then what?"

The Wraith paused.

"To warn you."

The Core behind them pulsed.

Once.

Then again.

And Malik realized—it wasn't activating because of him.

It was responding to the Wraith.

"You're trying to wake it."

"No," the Wraith whispered.

"I'm trying to keep it asleep."

The vault shook.

Naomi's voice came through the comm: "We've got movement—something's waking up beneath you!"

Elaris cursed. "The Sentinels—no, not just those. Something bigger."

Vessa's flames spiked. "You've got ten seconds before this place becomes a tomb."

Malik turned to the Wraith.

"What's beneath the Core?"

"Not what," it said.

"Who."

The Core cracked.

Lines of violet light burst across its surface.

The air warped.

Malik felt pressure against his skull—like memories trying to shove themselves into his head, too many lifetimes all screaming to be known.

He stumbled back.

Then focused.

And struck the base of the Core with the back of his hand.

Not with force.

But with recognition.

The Core stopped pulsing.

A moment of silence.

Then—

A voice.

Faint.

Old.

Beautiful.

"Malik Graves…"

He turned.

And from the Core stepped a woman.

Not quite human.

Eyes like inverted stars. Skin of shifting dusk.

Hair that flowed like smoke in reverse.

She smiled.

"You came back."

His heart froze.

"I know you."

"Yes," she said softly.

"You loved me. Once."

Naomi's voice crackled. "Malik—report. What the hell is happening down there?"

He didn't answer.

The woman approached, bare feet floating just above the vault floor.

"They tried to seal me away. But you bound me first. To protect them."

"Who are you?" Malik asked, voice shaking.

She touched his chest.

"I was your First."

Time unraveled.

Memories surfaced—his original self, far before necromancy had even formed into a discipline. A time when power came not from ranks, but from names—true ones.

She had been his partner.

Not a summon.

Not an ally.

But a part of him.

Bound by a pact forged in blood and betrayal.

Her name—

Soline.

The Wraith hissed.

"She is the first gate. If she walks free, the others will follow."

Malik looked at her. "And if I let you go?"

"Then we finish what we started."

He closed his eyes.

Then opened them again, cold and fierce.

"I don't finish stories the same way anymore."

He placed his hand on her forehead.

And unbound her.

But not as his summon.

As his equal.

The vault shattered.

Not physically—but spiritually.

Every ward, every suppressive glyph—gone.

The Coalition above felt it like a heartbeat rolling across their souls.

Elaris straightened. "That was Malik."

Naomi shivered. "What was that?"

Anacaona tightened her grip. "Permission."

Soline stepped forward, her presence rewriting gravity.

The Wraith fled, dissolving into mist.

Malik turned to her.

"We need to go. The Guild will arrive in minutes."

She nodded.

"But first—"

She turned to the Core.

And touched it.

It melted.

Not in heat, but identity.

And left behind a single object.

A crown.

Not the Empty one.

But another.

Twisted. Black. Broken.

Malik stepped back.

"This isn't mine."

"No," Soline agreed.

"It belonged to the one who failed."

They left the vault.

Sanctuary erupted around them—constructs malfunctioning, wards reversing, Guild operatives panicking.

Malik walked through them like a shadow through mist.

Soline beside him, a forgotten legend come to life.

By the time they reached the exit, the storm had parted.

Naomi stared at Soline. "Who…"

"An old friend," Malik said.

Elaris didn't blink. "A new war."

Above them, Guild satellites captured the breach.

They saw Soline.

They ran facial patterns through ten thousand archives.

And found nothing.

Because she'd been deleted from history.

And now she was back.

In the control halls of the Guild Sanctum, alarms wailed.

High Guildmaster Vellin stared at the footage.

And whispered:

"Gods help us."