The chamber pulsed with power. Sylas and Alira stood at the pinnacle of the Spire, before the fading form of the First Seeker—a being of immense age, his voice woven from echoes of time itself. Around them, the walls of the ancient tower rippled, reality bending with the intensity of what had been revealed.
"You've seen only fragments," the Seeker said. "But the whole truth is a weight few survive."
Sylas stepped forward. "We're not here for fragments. Show us everything."
The Seeker regarded him, eyes deep like the abyss. "Very well."
He raised a hand. A chalice of black stone rose from the ground between them, filled with liquid that shimmered like starlight and bled shadow.
"This is the Breath of Memory," the Seeker intoned. "Drink, and know. But be warned—knowledge is never free."
Alira touched Sylas's arm. "We don't know what this will do."
"We need it," he said, voice quiet but resolute. "Whatever comes after... we'll face it together."
He took the chalice and drank.
Time shattered.
—
Sylas was pulled into the stream of existence itself. He saw everything—his childhood, every decision, every doubt, every step that led him to this moment. But it didn't stop there. He saw worlds born and unmade. Saw the Heart forged by ancient hands. Saw its corruption—the pain it inflicted—and the purpose behind it.
The cycle wasn't chaos. It was control. A mechanism built by something older than gods.
He saw himself standing over the world, wreathed in divine flame. Then kneeling, broken, in a field of ash.
Too many futures. Too many ends.
He screamed.
—
Alira drank next.
Memories she had buried clawed free—her mother's eyes as she vanished into smoke, the whisper of her own destiny left unspoken by frightened elders, the shadow of power that had always stalked her bloodline.
But then came the truth—Alira was descended from the Veilborn, one of the last bloodlines tied to the Old World. She was meant to be a key, not just a warrior.
And she saw herself wielding power no mortal should ever command.
The chalice slipped from her hands.
They both fell to their knees, gasping, the chamber spinning.
The First Seeker was almost gone, his form unraveling like mist.
"You have taken the forbidden path," he whispered. "You carry truth in your veins now. The Watchers will know. They will come."
Suddenly, the Spire shook. Stone cracked, and light poured in from every direction.
"Is it collapsing?" Alira shouted.
"No," Sylas said, rising. "It's transforming."
The walls of the Spire dissolved, revealing not a fall—but a sky of infinite pathways, rivers of stars, and distant lands unknown to any map.
And from one path came a presence.
Vast. Cold. Watching.
A voice echoed from the void, ancient and absolute.
"You were warned."
A figure appeared—wreathed in shifting black flame, eyes like collapsing suns, crowned with a ring of symbols that defied language.
A Watcher.
Alira stepped in front of Sylas, blade drawn. "So it begins."
Sylas's aura burned brighter. "Then let it begin."