Ryle raised his sword high, his dragon energy flaring in a violent, unstable spiral. Azazhel, broken and bloodied, struggled to stand—black ichor dripping from the corners of his mouth, his beautiful face twisted in pain and rage.
"This is the end!" Ryle roared.
The very air trembled as he prepared to deliver the final blow—
When suddenly, a voice, deep and ancient, thundered through the throne room, shaking the very walls:
"Rise up, Azazhel."
It wasn't Azazhel speaking. It was something older. Something greater.
The entire castle shuddered.
Behind Azazhel, the black throne began to shift, its dark stone melting away. Silver veins webbed across it, glowing with ancient runes that pulsed in a rhythm too alien to comprehend.
"What the hell is that?!" Tobin shouted, bracing himself as the ground quaked.
The throne, now fully silver and blazing with ethereal power, seemed to call to Azazhel. His broken body convulsed, as if being dragged toward it against his will.
Ryle gritted his teeth. Without hesitation, he dashed forward and kicked Azazhel in the chest, sending him hurtling backward.
Straight into the throne.
The instant Azazhel's back touched the silver, a terrible scream tore from his throat—but it wasn't one of pain. It was transformation.
The throne swallowed him whole, threads of silver light wrapping around his body like a cocoon.
The walls of the castle groaned and cracked, and then melted like wax under a cruel sun.
Before their horrified eyes, the entire world around them warped.
The throne room stretched, contorted, dissolved into a long, surreal hallway that seemed to stretch into forever. The stone floor rippled like water. The pillars bled silver mist. The ceiling above became a blank sky, filled with swirling fragments of forgotten memories and broken dreams.
Reality itself felt wrong—as if they had been pulled into a place that wasn't meant for mortals to see.
Azazhel's body disappeared within the throne, consumed by the blinding silver light.
The four stood there, weapons raised, hearts pounding, but unsure whether to move.
Ryle's instincts screamed at him.
"This is a trap!" Thea shouted, her grip tightening on her Twinlights.
Tobin and Kessia moved closer, forming a tight circle, but the hallway around them shifted again, bending like some monstrous beast breathing around its prey.
And then—
Ryle felt it.
A pull, sharp and nauseating, like being sucked into the center of a swirling black hole.
He tried to resist, digging his heels into the shifting floor, but it was useless.
The silver light engulfed them all.
Ryle's mind shattered into a thousand pieces.
He spun through memories and fragments of time. Colors he couldn't name. Sounds that had no meaning.
He felt himself falling through a blender of reality, every piece of his soul sliced apart and stitched back together again, over and over.
In the distance, he heard whispers.
No—he heard his own voice.
Every word he had ever said, in his entire life, echoed around him.
"You're not strong enough."
"I'll never forgive them."
"I will protect them, no matter what it costs."
"Was it all my fault?"
His failures. His victories. His regrets. His pride.
All swirling, all consuming him at once.
He screamed but no sound came out.
Then—
White.
Endless white.
He lay there, staring up at an empty sky with no sun, no stars. Just pure, blank nothingness.
For a moment, he didn't know if he was alive.
Then, faintly, he heard footsteps crunching nearby.
He forced himself to sit up, body trembling.
In the distance, he saw them.
Thea, clutching her Twinlights, face pale but determined.
Tobin, bruised but alive, sword slung across his back.
Kessia, her robes torn but her light magic still pulsing softly around her.
They were alive.
They had survived whatever this was.
"Ryle!" Thea called, running toward him.
He stood, legs shaky, and met her halfway. They didn't need to speak—they were simply grateful to see each other breathing.
"What happened?" Tobin growled, scanning the blankness around them.
Before Ryle could answer, the world shifted again.
The endless white peeled away like paper, revealing—
The hallway.
The same warped, endless corridor from before, but now it was sharper. Darker. More real.
The walls were lined with silver mirrors, each reflecting twisted versions of themselves. Their footsteps echoed unnaturally loud, as if the walls themselves were breathing.
At the far end of the corridor, a door stood slightly ajar, silver light spilling through the crack.
Ryle's heart pounded.
Something waited for them beyond that door.
Something ancient.
Something monstrous.
He tightened his grip on his sword.
"Stay close," he said quietly.
Without another word, the group stepped into the silver hallway.
And the door slowly creaked wider, inviting them deeper into the unknown.