The journey to the Forgotten Moon began with silence.
Russ and Kala stood on the deck of a smuggler's skiff, borrowed—liberated, really—from the outskirts of the Scoria Belt. It was barely more than a hull wrapped around outdated thrusters, but it held together through the subspace jumps and didn't ask questions.
Russ sat cross-legged in the cockpit, staring at the crystal orb. It now hovered steadily in front of him, pulsing faintly with each beat of his heart. Every time it flared, a whisper echoed inside his skull. Not words anymore—images. A ruined temple. A crater split by violet fire. A throne of teeth, empty but waiting.
Kala leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching him. "You've been staring at that thing for an hour. Blink before your eyes fall out."
"I think it's mapping something inside my head," Russ murmured. "Like it's not showing me where to go—it's waking something in me that already knows."
Kala grimaced. "Creepy. Definitely not normal."
He glanced at her. "Neither am I."
"No argument there."
The ship jolted as they dropped out of subspace. Before them, bathed in the fading glow of a dying sun, hung the Forgotten Moon.
It wasn't on any star charts.
It was cracked down the center like a broken egg, its surface scarred with ancient ruins. Black spires jutted out from the crust like ribs of a buried giant. No atmosphere. No rotation. It simply... lingered.
As if the universe had tried to forget it and failed.
"Yup," Kala muttered, peering through the viewport. "This screams 'trap.'"
Russ didn't argue. "Then let's spring it."
They descended in silence.
The landing site wasn't a ruin—it was the ruin. A spiraling obsidian ziggurat, half-buried in dust and shadow. The ground around it was scorched glass, as if something had burned across the surface in a single violent sweep.
As they approached, a low vibration rippled through Russ's body. The Seal in his blood thrummed like a tuning fork, and the orb flared, then shattered—its contents absorbed into his skin like ink into paper.
Kala drew her blade. "That's not normal."
Russ felt heat climb his spine. "Neither is this."
He stepped forward, and the ziggurat responded. Its walls pulsed faintly, veins of purple light crawling along the surface, illuminating a path inward. The entrance yawned open, inviting.
The corridors inside were too smooth, too precise. No dust. No decay. As if time didn't dare touch this place.
At the heart of the ziggurat was a chamber. No doors. No exits. Just a monolith in the center—a slab of obsidian floating a few feet off the floor. Upon it, etched in searing violet lines, was a sigil that matched the one in Russ's chest.
The Third Seal.
The moment he saw it, pain lanced through his body. His knees buckled, and he hit the ground, convulsing. A scream tore from his throat—not from pain, but from recognition.
He had seen this place before. Not in dreams—in memory.
In a previous cycle. A past version of himself, standing in this very chamber, sealing away the Third so that he would one day return for it.
He wasn't just chosen by the Void. He had been here before.
Kala knelt beside him. "Russ! Talk to me—"
"I've been here," he gasped. "Not me—not exactly. But a version of me. A predecessor."
"You're saying you're… reincarnated?"
"No," he said, trembling. "I think I'm a… continuation."
And then the Seal burned itself into his chest, and everything went black.