The tower rose endlessly above them, its spires piercing the dark void like needles against the flesh of a dying world. As Sylas and Alira passed through its threshold, the weight of ancient time pressed down on them. This was no mere structure—it was a monument to forgotten gods and fractured realities.
The moment their feet crossed the threshold, the air changed. It was heavy with emotion—not fear or hatred, but sorrow. Regret. The kind that lingered long after worlds fell and names were lost to the ages.
They stood in a circular hall with no ceiling, only the swirling stars above. The walls were carved from obsidian laced with veins of glowing blue. Murals lined the walls, depicting events that Sylas couldn't quite understand—until he saw himself in them.
Him. Not Sylas. But someone else.
A being clad in light, wielding a blade made of constellations, standing at the center of the cosmos, defying something massive and shapeless—a swirling maelstrom that devoured suns.
"Kael'Tharion," Alira whispered, tracing the mural with her fingertips. "That's you."
"I was him," Sylas said, voice tight. "But I'm not anymore."
A soft chime echoed through the hall, and with it, a figure descended from the starlit void above. She floated down like a falling feather—silver hair trailing like mist, her eyes blindfolded, her robes shimmering with nebula dust.
"The first trial begins," she intoned, her voice melodic yet hollow. "The Trial of Memory."
Before Sylas could respond, the room fractured.
Reality tore like parchment.
He was suddenly alone, standing in a field of silver grass under twin moons. A woman laughed nearby—a sound so warm it made his chest ache.
He turned. It was her.
Not Alira.
A different woman. One he knew without knowing how.
She ran to him, arms wide, light blooming from her skin. "Kael'Tharion, you're late!"
Sylas staggered back, confused. "I—what is this?"
But she didn't hear him. The memory played like a scene in a dream—inevitable, impossible to stop.
She reached him, embracing him. "The Tribunal approved your return. We can finally be together."
Sylas's knees hit the grass. "Who are you?"
But the answer came not from her lips, but from the voice behind him.
"She was your bond," said a man cloaked in grey, standing just beyond the trees. "The one you sacrificed when you chose to become the Heartbearer. Do you remember the price of power now?"
The scene burned away—sky, grass, warmth—replaced again by the dark obsidian tower.
Alira was beside him once more, but he was on his knees, tears streaming down his face.
"You okay?" she asked.
Sylas nodded slowly. "Just… remembering what I lost."
A voice boomed through the chamber. "You are not yet worthy to reclaim yourself."
Then the second trial began.
This time, the floor crumbled beneath their feet. They fell—not through space, but through time. Images flashed around them—wars waged, stars born and extinguished, his own voice shouting names he no longer remembered.
They landed in darkness.
A throne room—abandoned, decayed.
At the center sat a corpse in regal armor, its crown rusted, its hands clutching a blade of broken light. As Sylas approached, the corpse stirred.
Its head rose.
And it had Sylas's face.
"You failed," the corpse growled. "You took the Heart and fled. Left everything to burn."
"I didn't know," Sylas whispered.
"Liar!" the shade roared. "You did. You chose this."
The corpse lunged, and the blade of broken light blazed to life.
Sylas met the blow with his own sword, sparks erupting.
Alira leapt in beside him, blocking the second strike.
They fought together—steel clashing with shade and fury—until Sylas, with a final cry, drove his blade through the shade's chest.
It gasped… then smiled.
"You are learning," it rasped, before fading to ash.
They stood alone in silence.
Then the tower shifted once more.
The final door opened.
Beyond it, a simple room bathed in golden light. In its center: a mirror.
Alira squeezed his hand. "Whatever happens, I'm here."
Sylas stepped forward and looked into the mirror.
He saw himself.
Not Kael'Tharion.
Not a Heartbearer.
Just Sylas.
But behind him—an army. Alira. The Oracle. The ruined world they had fought to save.
And suddenly… he understood.
He was not a fallen god.
He was not a tool of fate.
He was the bridge.
The balance.
The choice.
The mirror shattered.
The tower groaned.
From above, the void peeled away, revealing a sky bursting with new stars.
The Gate of Echoes had tested him.
And he had passed.