Kael woke with a start.
The cold stone beneath him bit into his back like teeth, and for a moment, he couldn't remember where he was. The sky overhead was darker than night, like something had peeled away the stars and left only a void. He blinked slowly, his breath rising in shallow cloud.
The tower was gone.
No—he was gone from it.
He sat up, groaning as pain lanced through his ribs. Every limb felt like it had been wrung dry, and his mind still reeled from the echo of Serin's voice.
You can't outrun what's inside you.
He ran a hand through his hair, now matted with sweat and ash. All around him stretched a field of gray—ash dunes, broken relics, and the remnants of war. Spearheads jutted from the ground like weeds. Helmets filled with bone fragments lay half-buried. And overhead, that hollow sky hung silent and low, heavy with unseen weight.
A battlefield.
One he didn't recognize… yet felt disturbingly familiar.
He rose to his feet, swaying as a wave of nausea hit him. Magic, maybe. Or whatever cursed force had brought him here.
A single figure stood in the distance, unmoving. Cloaked in white. Hood drawn.
Kael hesitated, then began walking toward it.
Every step stirred the ashes into little spirals, like they remembered movement, like they were trying to walk again. The silence grew oppressive—there were no birds, no insects, no wind.
Just memory.
When he finally reached the figure, it did not move. Up close, he realized it wasn't human at all. A statue. Carved from salt-white stone, weathered by time. Its face was vague, unformed, as if the sculptor had never finished—or had forgotten what a face looked like.
At the base, words had been etched in a language Kael almost recognized.
He reached out, brushing his fingers along the grooves—and suddenly, the world shifted.
The ground cracked open beneath him, and he fell.
No scream, no wind, just a long descent into dark.
He landed hard, but not on stone.
Wood.
He rolled, coughing, and realized he was inside an old hall—broken pews, rotted banners, and a collapsed altar. The smell of mildew and blood soaked the air.
It was a temple.
And he was not alone.
Shadows moved along the edges, flickering like flames. Not quite alive—but not fully dead either. They had form without weight, voices without mouths. They whispered as one.
"Oathbreaker…"
Kael froze.
"Thief of fire…"
"Bearer of ruin…"
"Would you see the world burned again?"
He drew his sword, the steel trembling in his grip.
"I didn't choose any of it," he said.
"But you survived it," the voices answered. "Isn't that the same?"
The altar at the front of the temple cracked open. From it, smoke poured—thick and silver, swirling into a shape. A woman rose from it, her form woven from mist and ember. Her eyes were pits of molten gold, and her voice echoed like a funeral bell.
"You carry a curse, Kael Azreth."
He said nothing.
"You were marked the moment you walked away from the pyres. Do you remember what you promised?"
"I promised…" He faltered. "I don't know anymore."
"You do."
He remembered fire. Screams. His hand clutching hers—Serin's—on the edge of the cliff as the city burned. He remembered letting go.
And the fall.
The woman stepped forward, her body flickering like a candle about to go out.
"You must descend deeper."
"To what end?"
"To meet what remains of your soul."
He hesitated. "And if there's nothing left?"
Her smile was hollow.
"Then you'll become what you fear most."
The temple crumbled around him
And Kael, once more, began to fall.