The cult's chants split the dusk like razors.
Their voices rose in rhythmic waves, ancient syllables vibrating with stolen power. The sky over Ervis rippled like a bruised canvas, torn by the emergence of something unnatural—a forged god made not from divinity, but regret.
Atop the smoldering city walls, crimson-robed figures circled the heart of their ritual. Their eyes were not wide with worship—they were empty, hollowed out by obsession. What they summoned was no savior.
It was a replacement for the silence Ael and Vel had healed.
And it hung in the air like a tumor with teeth.
Ael, Vel, Nirra, and the child descended through the hills, sticking to the misted tree line. The deeper they moved into the cult's territory, the more the air warped—runes written in blood crawled across stones, trees, and even the bodies of sacrificed animals and men.
Nirra swallowed hard. "They've been preparing this for months. Maybe years."
"They waited for the true silence to be weakened," Vel muttered, eyes glowing faintly. "And now they think they can take its place."
Ael scanned the perimeter. "They're not wrong to be afraid. We changed the core of soul magic. That much power doesn't disappear. It shifts—and others rush to fill the void."
The boy, walking quietly at Ael's side, clutched his cloak tighter. "That thing… it's made from the voices I cast away. The ones that begged me not to feel. They screamed until they were all that remained."
Nirra turned to him gently. "Can we stop it?"
The boy didn't answer right away. Then, softly: "If I face it."
—
As they crept closer to the outer edge of the ritual site, Vel raised a hand, signaling them to halt.
Below, near the central altar, a robed figure raised their arms—more ornate than the others, draped in crimson and gold. A mask of black iron covered their face, etched with glowing runes.
They spoke a single word that cracked the stones underfoot:
"Ael."
Time stopped for a breath.
Ael's eyes widened.
That voice.
He knew it.
Even after two lives, even after the heart he'd once removed—he knew that voice.
The masked figure lowered their hood.
Ael's breath caught.
"...Eiren."
Vel tensed instantly. "Who?"
Ael didn't blink. "He was my general. My brother in all but blood. The man I trusted to end wars when I couldn't."
Nirra whispered, "He survived your death?"
Ael shook his head. "No. He followed me into death."
Below, Eiren removed his mask.
He hadn't aged.
His eyes burned with crimson magic.
"I was the sword you left behind," Eiren called. "You made peace. I made vengeance."
Ael stepped forward, ignoring Vel's warning hand.
"You were never meant to carry that burden."
"I carried it anyway," Eiren replied, voice shaking with conviction. "You gave up your heart. I gave up my soul. And now that the world has cast aside its silence, I'll forge a new one."
He raised both hands.
The forged god behind him let out a sound that wasn't a roar—it was a dirge, a song of endings made from fractured echoes of despair.
Eiren pointed at the boy beside Ael.
"I will reclaim what you turned your back on. And with it, I will silence the world forever."
—
Ael drew his blade.
Vel's flames ignited, her hair rising with heat.
Nirra pulled a thread of dreamlight and wrapped it around her fingers like a whip.
But the boy stepped forward.
And for the first time, he spoke with power.
"I am no longer your silence."
The cult shuddered.
The air cracked.
And above them, the false god faltered—its echoes stumbling as a true voice rose to meet them.
The boy's hands glowed with gold and blue fire.
"I am feeling. I am memory. I am the wound that healed."
Eiren's eyes widened—not in fear, but in fury.
"Then die as a traitor to your own creation!"
He leapt forward, blades of soulsteel erupting from his hands.
Ael met him mid-air.
Their clash cracked the earth.
—
In that instant, the battle began.
Not between armies.
But between beliefs.
Ael vs. Eiren.
Flame vs. shadow.
And the boy—no longer silent—stepped into the storm to reclaim the echoes that once tried to become a god.