For the first time since they entered the Underfold — there was silence.

The Core had sealed.
The First Fracture closed.
The tremors beneath reality calmed to a faint, steady pulse.

And yet, Elian felt no triumph.
Only a cold weight behind his ribs.

"A wound bound. But the loom remains."
The Cartographer’s words haunted him.

They made their slow return upward, navigating the spiral fractures that had once threatened to swallow them whole. The breach they'd entered through had stabilized just long enough for Lysara to reopen a small gate.

They emerged back into the known realms as dawn cracked across the sky.

The world was still standing.

For now.

They camped near the outer ridge of the Shatterspine Cliffs — exhausted, but alive. Cray’s shoulder had been stabilized; Lysara’s hands were burned raw from overextending her glyphwork. Calen hadn’t spoken much since the sealing.

Elian stood watch beside the fire as the others slept.

The stars above looked wrong — just slightly out of position.

Proof that the Fracture had shifted more than just local reality.

A soft rustle broke his focus.

The Cartographer appeared beside him — no movement, no approach, simply there.

"Still watching?" Elian asked softly.

The Cartographer’s featureless face tilted.

"You have done what few could. But you have not won."

"I know."

"The Root is not the only hand reaching."

Elian turned fully now.

"What else is coming?"

The Cartographer hesitated — and even that slight pause chilled Elian’s blood.

"The Silent Court."

Elian froze.
His knuckles whitened around the Memory Blade’s hilt.

"They’re myth," he said flatly.
"Even Malrek feared them."

"Because Malrek was their servant once," the Cartographer whispered.

A distant, ancient wind swept across the cliffs — as though the very world flinched at the name.

The Silent Court.

Not a faction.
Not a cult.

A council — older than the fractures themselves. The first beings who learned how to feed on wounded reality, who whispered into the ears of both kings and gods.

They didn’t attack directly.
They shaped the wars others fought.

And now, the closing of the First Fracture had drawn their gaze.

"The Court has no interest in wounds that bleed," the Cartographer continued.
"They desire wounds that heal."

Elian’s brows furrowed.
"I don’t follow."

"While the Hollow fed on collapse, the Court feeds on rebirth. On restoration. On systems made to look whole again, while they burrow unseen beneath them."

In other words:
They wanted the world safe — but under their control.

Suddenly, it all clicked into place for Elian:

• Why so many factions had acted simultaneously.

• Why the Root let them live.

• Why the Fracture sealed so perfectly.

They hadn’t beaten their enemies.
They’d simply cleared the board for new players.

"Where do we find them?" Elian asked. His voice was low, tight.

"You don’t."

The Cartographer’s voice softened — almost like pity.

"The Silent Court finds you."

At that moment, Lysara’s voice rang out from behind them, sharp and cold.

"Elian—"

He spun, blade ready—

And froze.

A woman stood at the edge of the firelight.

She wore no armor, no symbols.
Her robes were simple gray silk, flowing like water, untouched by the wind.

Her face was calm, ageless — neither beautiful nor plain.
Her eyes were pools of mirrored light.

She smiled politely.

"You’ve made quite a mess," she said gently.

Elian raised the Memory Blade, heart hammering.

"Who are you?"

She dipped her head in greeting.

"I am Lady Auren, Speaker of the Silent Court."

The Cartographer flickered — already gone.

And the true game finally began.