Kael stood at the edge of the Ardent Scar, staring into the windswept canyon that stretched beyond the horizon. The Wastes of Dronamar were everything the old records warned about—barren, cursed, and saturated with the aftershock of dozens of collapsed Rifts. The land itself groaned under the weight of broken time, the bones of machines and monsters scattered across the dunes like forgotten myths.
Seris stepped up beside him, hood drawn low over her face. "There's no turning back now."
Kael adjusted the silver gauntlet on his arm. It pulsed softly, synced to the beat of his heart, like a second skin he hadn't asked for but had come to accept. Since claiming it in the vault, the device had begun to whisper to him—not in words, but in urges. Directions. Warnings. Power.
Toran surveyed the wasteland from behind. "We make for the Beacon Spire. That's where the Third Gate is supposed to be. Or what's left of it."
Kael nodded. "Then we move."
---
Traveling through Dronamar was like walking across the scars of reality. One moment, the sky bled purple; the next, it burned red. Time hiccupped in pockets, replaying sounds or movements from moments before. Kael saw a bird dive into the sand—only for it to repeat the same dive every ten seconds like a glitch in a corrupted memory.
"Are these Rift echoes?" he asked.
Seris answered without looking up. "Fragments. What's left when a Rift dies but the reality it touched doesn't fully let go. It's like trying to wake up from a dream that won't stop bleeding into the real world."
As they pressed deeper into the Wastes, signs of life—or something like it—began to appear. Massive claw marks etched into rusted metal towers. Bone piles the size of buildings. And eventually, they found a survivor.
Or what was left of one.
A hunched figure crawled from behind a collapsed ship hull, covered in rags, skin burned and warped by Garmon radiation. He looked at Kael with one milky eye and hissed.
"You... you have the touch of the gate."
Kael crouched. "What happened here?"
The man clawed at his own chest. "The Warden... still watches. Still feeds. You'll never reach the Spire. Not with blood alone. You'll need... memory."
Before Kael could ask what he meant, the man convulsed. Blue light spilled from his mouth—and then he was gone. Not dead. Just... erased.
Seris knelt beside the spot he had been. "The Gate's waking up. And it's hungry."
---
They reached the Beacon Spire by nightfall. The structure loomed out of the earth like a broken needle, tilted and cracked, wrapped in rusted chains that had no beginning or end. Lightning crawled across the sky, silent but constant.
Kael's chest tightened. The energy here was different—heavier, more chaotic.
Toran set up a perimeter. "We rest an hour. Then we scout inside. Warden or no Warden, we find out what this Gate is doing and shut it down if we can."
Kael sat on a rock overlooking the Spire, the gauntlet on his arm growing warm.
"You can feel it too, can't you?" he whispered.
From behind him, a voice answered, "Yes. And it feels you."
Kael whirled around, drawing his dagger.
A figure stood in the shadows beyond the firelight—a young man, maybe Kael's age, dressed in black cloth that shimmered like liquid void. His eyes glowed faintly silver, and a thin scar crossed the bridge of his nose.
"Who are you?" Kael asked.
The man stepped forward, unarmed. "My name is Veyr. I've been watching you since you entered the Corridor."
Toran and Seris rose, weapons drawn, but Veyr raised a hand. "I'm not your enemy. Not yet."
Kael lowered his blade slightly. "You came from the Corridor too?"
Veyr smiled faintly. "No. I was born outside the Gate. But my purpose is tied to yours. I serve the Custodians—the ones who kept the balance before the Sovereign broke it."
Seris stepped forward. "You're a Keeper?"
"Not anymore," Veyr said. "The Keepers are dead. What's left of them sleeps beneath the Black Sky. But their knowledge remains. And so does their mission."
Kael studied him. "Why show yourself now?"
"Because the Third Gate is a crucible," Veyr said. "It doesn't just protect a fragment of the lock—it tests those who would become part of it. If you fail here, the Sovereign wins another step."
Kael took a deep breath. "Then help us."
Veyr hesitated. "Only if you swear your goal is to seal the Thirteenth Gate—not open it."
Kael nodded. "I swear it."
Veyr's eyes narrowed, judging him. Then he tossed Kael a small black crystal. "You'll need this to reach the Gate's core. It will mark you as a challenger. Without it, you won't even see the Warden—let alone survive it."
---
They entered the Spire together.
Inside, the world warped.
Hallways looped in impossible directions. Stairs led downward and upward at the same time. Mirrors lined the walls—each one reflecting a different version of Kael. In some, he was older. In others, monstrous.
Seris placed a hand on one. "These are futures. Or warnings."
Kael kept moving. The crystal in his hand pulsed the deeper he went.
At the heart of the Spire, the Warden waited.
It was not a creature, but a storm—a mass of shifting limbs and burning eyes, wrapped in a cloak of screaming wind. It hovered above a pool of molten light, tendrils stretching into every surface.
Veyr stepped back. "This one is called Ashroth. The Echo of Regret. You can't kill it. Only confront it."
Kael stepped forward. The gauntlet glowed.
Ashroth's voice filled the chamber. "Another orphan of the fracture. Another thief of fate."
Kael raised his chin. "I'm not a thief. I'm a weapon. And I choose where I point myself."
The Warden surged, tendrils crashing down.
Kael moved—faster than before. The gauntlet channeled his energy into a shield of light that blocked the impact. But the force still sent him skidding backward.
Seris and Toran held the edges, trying to distract the beast, but Ashroth's form shifted constantly. It couldn't be cornered. It was the room.
"Confront it!" Veyr shouted. "You have to show it your truth!"
Kael closed his eyes.
He thought of the village that raised him. The pain. The shame. The day he died.
He thought of waking up alone. Of fighting to survive when everyone said he was nothing.
And then he shouted—not a scream of fear, but of refusal.
He thrust the crystal into the molten pool.
The chamber lit up.
Ashroth shrieked.
And the Gate... opened.
---
When the light faded, Kael stood alone.
The others were gone.
He stood in a garden of glass trees, beneath a sky made of rivers. A woman in white robes sat before him—eyes blind, yet all-seeing.
"You have passed," she said. "The Third Gate closes. Nine remain."
Kael stepped forward. "Where are the others?"
"They will return. This was your trial."
He looked down at the gauntlet—now pulsing with deeper light. Not just a weapon. A memory keeper.
"What am I becoming?" he asked.
The woman smiled. "That depends on the choices you make next."
And then the world dissolved.
Kael awoke outside the Spire, Seris and Toran beside him. Veyr stood over them, arms crossed.
"You survived," Veyr said. "And now... you're one of us."
Kael sat up, vision still hazy. "One of what?"
"The Unbroken," Veyr said. "Those who have passed through a Gate and kept their mind. You're rare now. But you won't be for long. The Sovereign is gathering strength. We'll need an army of survivors like you."
Kael looked out across the Wastes.
His path was set.
He didn't know what power still slumbered behind the remaining Gates—but he would face them all.
He would become what the world needed.
Even if it killed him again.