The rough, gray stones of Aethelgard stand once more as a silent sentry over Douxel Vale. For weeks, the scraping of trowels and the thrum of restorative magic have echoed through its ancient halls. The fortress, home of the Laetora Gravebound, is slowly being woven back together—its deepest scars mended by shimmering ribbons of dark obsidian rock, like solidified shadow holding history in place.

Yet, for all the progress made by the forces securing it, Aethelgard refuses to yield all its secrets.

The tragedy, however, is that some secrets should have remained buried forever.

The air in the Forge clears, but only for a fraction of a heartbeat.

Curiosity—or desperation—overtakes caution. Trollish hands reach out to the heavy, forgotten mechanisms of the Forge. Ancient gears groan, ancient runes flare with blinding luminescence, and with a deafening crack that shakes the bedrock of Aethelgard, the planar alignment shifts. The dark tear snaps shut, only to tear wide open again with a light so radiant it burns the eyes.

In a wash of pure, terrifying brilliance, a Solar descends.

It does not bring warmth or comfort. It brings absolute, unyielding judgment. Wings of shimmering white unfurl against the dark masonry of the Forge, and its golden eyes sweep over the motley crew standing in the glow of the portal: two looming trolls, one visibly corrupted by demonic filth; a shadow-touched, fiendish rogue; a dark, sinister hag; and a lone Warlock bound to a celestial pact, standing amidst the monstrous company.

The divine being gazes down at the gathered group, its expression carved from cold, unforgiving marble. It draws a greatsword that burns like a miniature sun, the hum of divine wrath vibrating through the stone floor.

It speaks only four words, its voice resounding like a thunderclap across the heavens:

"Who will die first?"