They reached the Shattered Gate on the seventh night.
It had once been a fortress-city carved into the spine of the Black Mountains, a final bastion against the divine cataclysms that had burned the world. Now, it was a scar—charred stone twisted into mockeries of arches, battlements shattered like bones, and the once-mighty gate itself warped open like a maw frozen in mid-scream. Wind howled through its remnants, and the sky above was smeared with blood-colored clouds.
The Wyrdborne dismounted first, eyes fixed on the ruin.
"This is where it fell," he said. "The god Mevrion's Herald tore through this place like it was parchment. Only three of my warriors lived. One of them held the line long enough for the children to escape." His hand trembled slightly. "I never saw him again."
Kellen stepped beside him, sword strapped across his back. "We stop it here."
Elyra nodded, flames dancing around her fingers. "Before it becomes more than just a Herald. If Mevrion gains a physical anchor in this realm, the seals will unravel."
"And then the gods return," the Wyrdborne finished grimly.
Together, they passed into the ruin. The Sentinel followed behind like a moving mountain, its footfalls cracking old stone.
Inside, death still lingered.
The bones of the fallen lay scattered across the courtyard—some armored, others scorched beyond recognition. The air was thick with the remnants of magic too ancient and violent to fade. Symbols of warding still faintly glowed on the walls, though most had long since failed. And yet, there was a silence in the place that felt not like peace—but anticipation.
As if the ruin was holding its breath.
They made camp in the shadow of a broken tower. The Wyrdborne traced runes into the earth, forming a circle of resistance. Kellen tended to his blade while Elyra stood watch, staring into the darkness that pooled in the arches beyond.
When the fire burned low, the Wyrdborne spoke.
"I lied to you," he said.
Kellen glanced up. "About what?"
The old warrior's voice was hollow. "I said I forged the Sentinel's heart alone. That's not true."
Elyra turned. "Then who helped you?"
"My brother," the Wyrdborne whispered. "His name was Maldrin. A smith, like me. Better, in truth. He gave his soul to the forging. Poured it into the binding glyphs. The Sentinel… its awareness… that's him."
Kellen's breath caught.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because I betrayed him," the Wyrdborne said. "When the gods came, I made a deal to save our bloodline. Maldrin wanted to stand and fight. I chose retreat. He died here—watching over the very thing I ran from."
The wind stirred the ashes around them.
Kellen moved closer. "You still carry him. In the iron. In the vow. Maybe that's enough."
The Wyrdborne didn't answer. But his shoulders squared, just a little.
That night, the stars vanished.
The Herald arrived with the scent of rot and thunder.
It wasn't like the shadow-creatures they had fought before—those had been fragments, echoes. This was a presence that bent reality around it. Trees blackened as it passed. Stone wept blood. The very air seemed to recoil from its form.
It didn't walk—it descended.
From the heart of the ruin's cathedral, a shape emerged. Tall, gaunt, cloaked in rags woven from human screams. Its face was a mask of obsidian, smooth and eyeless. Its hands—if they were hands—dripped with hunger that shimmered like heat.
Behind it, corpses rose—not as undead, but as vessels. Their mouths stretched open wider than possible. Their eyes burned with violet fire.
Elyra was the first to act.
She stepped forward and drove her palms into the ground. A circle of light surged outward, blindingly bright. "Wyrdlight," she shouted. "Kellen, now!"
He leapt into the halo, sword drawn. The Herald moved, and time slowed—its gestures warping the air like tar.
Steel met shadow.
Kellen's blade glanced off the Herald's chest, the impact ringing like a gong. The creature hissed—not in pain, but in interest. Then it struck.
Kellen flew backward, crashing into a column with enough force to crack stone. Blood filled his vision.
The Wyrdborne didn't hesitate.
He charged, calling out words in the dead tongue of Velmora. The Sentinel moved with him, its iron fists burning with runes. They collided with the Herald in a shockwave that flattened half the ruin.
For a moment, it looked like the Herald faltered.
Then it laughed.
No sound—just the feeling of laughter. Of something ancient and cruel taking joy.
The risen corpses swarmed.
Elyra carved through them with arcs of white fire. Kellen forced himself to his feet, ignoring the pain. He joined her, blades flashing, cutting down horrors that bled memories instead of blood.
The Sentinel grappled the Herald—iron against god-flesh. The two titans battled across the ruin, smashing through pillars and statues, each blow echoing like thunder.
The Wyrdborne climbed to the cathedral's upper tiers, runes blazing along his skin. He began to chant.
Kellen recognized the words—an unbinding. A soul-forged curse. A sacrifice.
He screamed, "What are you doing?!"
"Buying you time!" the Wyrdborne roared.
The Herald screamed—a sound that shattered mortar and cracked sky. It threw the Sentinel back and leapt toward the chanting figure.
Kellen ran.
But not fast enough.
The Herald reached the Wyrdborne and drove a claw into his chest—just as the final word of the incantation left his lips.
Light exploded.
Not heat, not fire—memory. A storm of memories. The ruin shook. The Herald reeled, its form flickering, faltering.
Kellen caught the Wyrdborne as he fell.
The old warrior's blood stained his hands.
"No," Kellen whispered. "You're not dying. Not like this."
The Wyrdborne smiled weakly. "I told you… I forged the Sentinel with my brother. Now… he forges me."
Below, the Sentinel's eyes blazed.
Then its body began to change.
Armor split open. Iron peeled back. And from within, a new form emerged—taller, leaner, human-shaped. The runes still glowed, but the face was his—the Wyrdborne's, reborn in iron.
The Herald roared—and charged.
The Iron-Wyrdborne met it with a blade forged of light.
Their duel was legend.
They clashed across the ruin, carving deep gouges in the world. The sky wept fire. The bones of the gods themselves seemed to shudder.
And in the end—
The Wyrdborne drove his blade through the Herald's mask.
It shattered.
The Herald screamed as it was torn apart, piece by piece—its body unraveling into dust, its scream fading into silence.
When it was over, the ruin was quiet.
They buried the Wyrdborne's mortal body beneath the heart of Velmora.
Kellen placed a shard of the Sentinel's original armor as a marker. Elyra stood beside him, silent.
No songs were sung. No rites spoken. Just the wind and the iron.
The new Sentinel—the Iron-Wyrdborne—remained behind, a silent guardian.
When Kellen turned to leave, it spoke.
"Live, brother," it said.
And then returned to stillness.
They left the ruin together—Kellen, Elyra, and the memories of those who gave everything.
The gods had stirred.
But so had the ones who would defy them.