When morning came, the Hollow Glade no longer existed.
Where once stood a sacred haven of ancient druids—verdant, eternal, and shielded from time—now there remained only ruin: charred roots, shattered stones, and a silence so absolute it screamed.
Auren stood at the edge of the devastation, his boots buried in cinders, his cloak still smoldering with faint threads of divine fire.Not even the wind dared to move.
Lyra was behind him, her arm wrapped in a crude bandage, her lips pale, her eyes locked on the still-smoking ruins.
"They're all gone," she whispered. "The druids… the glade… even the spirits have fled."
"No," Auren murmured, "not fled."
He knelt, placing his palm to the blackened earth.
"They were erased."
And then it hit him.
The fire inside wasn't just reacting.It was guiding him.
Beneath the roots, deep below even the druids' sacred grove, was something older—a memory buried in stone.
Auren stepped forward, moving through the charred remains until his flame lit upon a single piece of scorched ground that refused to crack.
He pressed his palm to it.
The fire surged.
With a thunderous rumble, the ground split—revealing an ancient staircase descending into a void untouched by time.
"Where does it lead?" Lyra asked, gripping her spear.
"To the first thing I ever built," Auren replied. "The first thing they tried to bury."
✦
The descent took hours.
And still, Auren did not tire.
It was as if each step peeled away another chain wrapped around his soul. Another veil lifted from the edge of memory.
The walls glowed faintly with old runes—carved not by tools, but by intention. Runes of protection. Of punishment. Of purpose.
And then—they reached it.
A vast underground hall, carved from obsidian and bone, lit only by a central flame that burned with colors no mortal eye could name.
At its center stood a throne.
No gold. No gem.Just stone, veined with divine fire.And behind it, an enormous wall bearing the Karmic Sigil—the same symbol that burned into Auren's hand.
Auren walked forward, slowly.
He did not sit.
Not yet.
"I built this when the gods turned their backs," he whispered. "When the world was falling apart and someone needed to take responsibility."
"It's… beautiful," Lyra said softly, though her voice trembled.
"It's accountability," Auren corrected. "It was never meant to rule. Only to judge."
His voice echoed across the chamber like a law that could not be rewritten.
Then—movement.
A whisper in the dark.
From the shadows emerged a figure cloaked in embered silk, eyes hidden behind a mask of polished bone.
"You returned," it said in a voice both male and female. "We feared you never would."
"I didn't," Auren replied. "He did."
"The Throne has waited. It is empty no longer. And so the Flame must choose: Will you rise as judge once more?"
Auren did not answer. Not with words.
He stepped toward the throne.
Placed a hand upon its back.
And in that instant, visions flooded him.
The first war.
The betrayal of gods.
The rise of the Void-Born.
The sealing of the Abyss Gate.
The sacrifice of comrades who chose purpose over paradise.
His knees buckled.His teeth clenched.
But he did not fall.
He turned slowly to Lyra—eyes now glowing like celestial magma, the fire within him no longer whispering.
It sang.
"I remember."
"Some thrones are not made to rule. They are built to bear the weight of every sin gods refused to claim."
— Valekai Draganoth, The First Karmic Decree