The wind carried whispers across dimensions. From the frozen citadels of the North to the sunless trenches beneath the Skyless Sea, a single name passed from mouth to mouth:
Lidow.
The Son of Shadow.
The Child of Dusk and Dawn.
And he had touched the Gate.
In the Ruins of Empyrael — once the capital of the Celestials — the High Chorus gathered. Seven Lichtholders, clad in tattered robes of gold and ash, floated above a pool of memory-light.
A vision shimmered across the surface: Lidow, his blade drawn, a silhouette of both divine glow and infernal flame.
"This cannot be," murmured the Blind Voice.
"Born of both," hissed another. "Such a being should not be."
"Then what do we do?" asked the youngest of the chorus.
The leader answered with no emotion. "We send the Watchers. Let them study. And if the signs remain true…"
"If he becomes the Vessel's equal—"
"Then he must die."
In the Eastern Sandholds, deep beneath the scorched sands, the Nomad Warlord's eyes opened in a trance. He had dreamed of fire and light colliding—and a boy standing alone amidst the ruins.
He woke up laughing.
"At last," he said. "The song changes."
In the Dead Forests, the exiled Witch-Queen Asera watched her cauldron boil black. Inside, Lidow's face formed, then cracked into flame and mist.
"A storm that walks," she whispered. "And not even his father will survive him…"
Meanwhile, back in Hell, Shadow watched Lidow spar with General Sirana. Each blow echoed through the obsidian halls. Sparks of both light and shadow crackled with each strike. Lidow had begun to wield them not separately—but together.
Sirana was panting now, despite her centuries of battle.
"You've surpassed half the generals," she said.
Lidow didn't respond. He simply looked to his father.
Shadow gave a nod. Approval. But also warning.
"You're not a weapon," he said quietly.
Lidow's jaw clenched. "Then what am I?"
That night, alone, Lidow wandered the Throne Hall. His fingers brushed the cracks in the obsidian floor—the marks of wars past. He stood before his father's throne. Sat for just a moment.
He felt nothing. No weight of destiny. Only silence.
Valaria entered. Her eyes were kind, but sharp.
"You're not ready for that seat," she said.
"I don't want it."
"Good," she replied. "Because it doesn't want you either. Not yet."
Far away, in Vorth'Aluun, the Vessel meditated inside its chamber of screaming stone. Priests fed it truth and madness like fire into a furnace.
A vision came.
Lidow standing above a field of broken angels and shattered demons, drenched in both wrath and mercy.
The Vessel opened its eyes.
"The son grows," it whispered. "The father weakens."
"Shall we strike?" a voice asked.
The Vessel shook its head.
"No. Let him become more. Let him taste power… so he'll hunger for it."
And beneath the surface of Vorth'Aluun, a thousand hands began to dig their way up.