Chapter 10: Vault of Echoes
Blackridge Fortress smoldered beneath a soot-colored sky.
The winged dracokin had fallen—cleaved in two by Jean's final strike, its heart pierced with searing light. The charred remains still steamed on the bloodied stones below.
Jean stood over them, chest heaving, her blade dimming. Whitney, singed and panting, watched the skies with wary eyes.
Below, soldiers tended to the wounded. Freya knelt over a fallen Warden, sealing gashes with runes that glowed softly. Ryan emerged from the rubble, coat torn, blood streaking his face—but alive.
And then, the rumble came.
Low. Deep. Echoing up from beneath the fortress.
Jean turned to the sound. "That's not thunder."
"No," Ryan said, wiping blood from his cheek. "That's older."
He held out a scroll. "When I arrived, I found this sealed in the tower archives. Hidden with Magistery runes."
Jean scanned it quickly. Her face paled.
"It's a vault. Beneath Blackridge. Sealed since the time of Martin Luther."
Whitney growled.
Freya stood. "You think it's what woke the dracokin?"
Jean nodded. "Or worse… it's waking them."
---
The catacombs spiraled downward in uneven stone and forgotten bones.
Jean led the descent, blade aglow. Whitney padded silently beside her. Ryan followed with Freya and two Luther knights, their torches casting long, eerie shadows on the walls—walls marked with deep claw scars and ancient warnings.
They passed old swords shattered in half, armor rusted and melted.
"They sealed something here," Ryan murmured. "Something even your ancestors feared."
They reached the final gate.
A massive stone door stood carved with two crests: The Luther sword and the Sigil of Celeste.
The air was electric.
Jean placed her palm against the door.
Light pulsed from her mark—the divine seal of the Emissary—and the door shuddered, then began to open.
The smell of ash and memory flooded out.
---
Inside the Vault, silence reigned.
Rows of old relics filled the chamber: cracked swords of aura knights long gone, a rusted Luther banner, and in the center—a sarcophagus bound in seven chains.
Jean approached slowly.
The aura was overwhelming. Even Whitney whimpered.
Ryan frowned. "There's something in there. Still alive."
"No," Jean whispered. "Not alive. Trapped."
Suddenly, a low groan echoed through the stone.
The sarcophagus shook.
Then a voice, impossibly deep and old, filled the vault:
"So… the Light returns. Too late."
Chains snapped.
The lid cracked.
And from the sarcophagus rose a figure—tall, gaunt, and wreathed in dark aura. His skin was pale, stretched tight over bones, eyes hollow gold.
Jean's aura blazed.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
The figure smiled.
"I am Kaelrith, once Envoy Knight of Luther. Once Emissary of the Forgotten Flame."
Ryan stepped back. "That's impossible. The Forgotten Flame is… dead."
Kaelrith's grin widened. "Nothing given to the gods ever truly dies."
---
He raised his hand.
The torches extinguished.
Dark fire erupted from the vault floor, spiraling upward.
Jean raised her blade just in time.
Kaelrith's voice echoed through the chaos.
"You seek to stop Antares. But it is not just dragons that wake. The old gods stir, Emissary. And your Light... will burn first."
---
Above, as Blackridge shuddered, Raven Luther stood at the fortress walls, watching smoke rise from the earth.
She smiled beneath her cloak.
"Now, cousin," she whispered. "Let's see if your Light can survive the dark."
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