The sea relinquished them at dawn.
Ethan stood upon the black sands of Eryndor's southern coast, his armor still dripping with salt, his heart heavy with the Leviathan's song. Behind him, the ocean stretched endlessly, quiet now — not in slumber, but in contemplation.
Shadowfang emerged beside him, shaking off droplets that turned briefly to steam. Lyra climbed down from the dragon's flank, every step leaving faint impressions on the scorched beach. Ashen, as always, seemed untouched — though the faint glimmer in their silver eyes told Ethan they felt the same unease.
Before them stretched the Desert of Echoes — a land where the horizon shimmered, and the wind whispered things best left unremembered.
"It doesn't look alive," Lyra murmured.
Ashen's gaze swept the dunes. "It isn't. The desert was once the cradle of the Sun Warden — the god who judged men's hearts. When it fell silent, so did everything else."
Ethan shielded his eyes. "And that's where we're going."
Ashen nodded. "To wake the one who cannot be lied to."
---
They left the sea behind.
The first hours passed in uneasy quiet. The sand was black and glassy, reflecting the sunlight like obsidian. Every step felt too loud, as though the ground carried the sound of their heartbeat.
By midday, the heat grew oppressive. Lyra's armor glowed faintly, her protection glyphs flickering from strain. Shadowfang's scales dulled under the relentless sun, and even Ethan felt the weight of something unseen pressing down upon them — not heat, but judgment.
The wind carried voices. Not words, but murmurs, as though the desert itself remembered everything ever spoken within it.
"This place listens," Lyra whispered. "Every word echoes back, twisted."
Ashen's reply was distant. "The Warden built it that way. Every lie ever told here was burned into the sand."
Ethan frowned. "Then we tread on the sins of the world."
Ashen gave a thin smile. "Exactly."
---
As the sun sank lower, they found shelter among the remains of what once had been a temple. Only the pillars stood now, carved with runes that flickered weakly in the dying light.
Ethan knelt beside one, tracing the engraving with his fingertips. It was older than any language he'd learned — older even than the Guild's records.
Ashen spoke quietly. "These pillars mark the path to the Solarium — the heart of the Warden's domain. It lies beyond the Mirage Line. Cross that, and you step outside of truth."
Ethan looked up. "Outside of truth?"
Ashen's expression didn't change. "Nothing that you see, hear, or believe will be entirely yours."
Lyra sighed. "Wonderful. A maze of lies built by a god of honesty."
"Only those who can't bear the truth call it a maze," Ashen replied.
Ethan's lips curved slightly. "Then let's see how far honesty takes us."
---
That night, the desert dreamed.
Ethan couldn't sleep. The sand was cold now, the sky a tapestry of violet and silver. He could see stars burning brighter than he'd ever known, each one whispering faintly — a choir too vast for human ears.
He heard footsteps beside him. Lyra sat down, her hair catching the starlight. "You haven't closed your eyes once."
"Neither have you," he replied.
She shrugged. "Hard to sleep when the ground keeps whispering secrets."
They sat in silence for a while. The kind of silence that carried more weight than words. Then Lyra asked softly, "When the Leviathan took your memory… do you regret letting it go?"
Ethan thought for a long time. "No. But I miss something I can't remember. That's the strange part."
Lyra smiled faintly. "You're starting to sound like Ashen."
"Don't curse me like that," he said, and she laughed — a quiet, fragile sound against the vastness of the desert.
For a moment, Ethan allowed himself to believe the world might still hold gentleness.
---
By dawn, the wind had changed.
They walked for hours through dunes that shifted like liquid, until the air itself began to shimmer. The sky fractured into colors, and the ground no longer followed the laws of distance.
"We've crossed the Mirage Line," Ashen said.
The light bent around them. Each step forward revealed reflections of themselves — walking beside, behind, and ahead. Some smiled. Some bled. One turned and whispered, Go back.
Lyra looked uneasy. "I don't like this."
Shadowfang growled low, his wings twitching. Even the dragon's reflection was warped — eyes burning gold instead of red, scales turned pale as ash.
Ethan clenched his jaw. "Keep moving. The Warden's heart lies in the center. Nothing else matters."
But the reflections whispered as they walked. They spoke truths no one had asked for — things buried deep.
> You left them to burn.
You used her name as a weapon.
You kill to feel alive.
Lyra covered her ears, trembling. "Make it stop!"
Ashen's voice cut through the mirage, calm but cold. "You cannot silence the truth. You can only survive it."
Ethan stepped forward, his reflection sneering at him. "You're not real."
> Neither are you, it answered.
He drove his blade into the sand — and the world shattered.
---
When the glare faded, they stood before a gate of molten gold.
It towered higher than any cathedral, its surface engraved with symbols that burned with white fire. Beyond it, light pulsed like a heartbeat — steady, immense, divine.
"The Solarium," Ashen whispered. "The last sun."
The gate opened soundlessly.
Heat rolled out in waves, thick as breath. Ethan stepped inside first. The air tasted of ash and sunlight. The chamber was circular, lined with mirrors that reflected not their bodies, but their souls.
At the center floated a figure wreathed in flame — neither man nor woman, but something between. Its eyes were twin stars, its voice a blade wrapped in thunder.
> You enter the Court of Truth.
Ethan bowed his head slightly. "I seek the Sun Warden. I seek the fire of judgment."
> You stand before it, the being said. And yet you speak as one unjudged.
Ashen stepped forward. "We come to awaken the Six. The Oath is stirring. The world—"
> —is always stirring, the Warden interrupted. But tell me, Hunter of the Unbound… do you understand the cost of light?
Ethan met its gaze. "Enlighten me."
The Warden extended a hand. A tendril of flame reached forward, touching his chest.
In an instant, the light consumed him.
---
He stood again — but not in the chamber.
He was back on the battlefield years ago. His squad. The fire. The betrayal. The screams of those he'd sworn to protect. He saw himself standing over their bodies, the blade still wet.
He remembered what came next — the silence, the shame, the vow to hunt gods so no one else would ever have to kneel before power.
But here, the scene did not fade.
It watched him.
> You call yourself righteous, the Warden's voice thundered through the memory. But all righteousness is born of guilt.
Ethan's fists clenched. "I did what I had to."
> You did what you wanted.
The words cut deeper than any blade.
The flames turned colder. Shadows bled from the edges of his memory, forming figures — his fallen comrades, eyes hollow, mouths whispering his name.
He fell to his knees. "Enough!"
The Warden's form appeared before him — vast and radiant.
> To carry the fire is to burn. Do you accept that truth?
Ethan raised his head, sweat and tears mingling. "If that's the price to keep the world alive—yes."
The flames roared. For a heartbeat, the chamber became the sun itself.
When the light receded, he stood again before the gate. The Warden was silent now, its form dimmed, its fire subdued.
> Then take what remains of my light. Let it burn those who lie, and guide those who endure.
A sigil appeared upon Ethan's palm — a brand shaped like a sun with a hollow center.
The Warden's voice softened. > Truth will not protect you, Hunter. But it will make your end meaningful.
---
Outside, the desert was quiet again. The mirages had vanished. The air was cool, the sky clear.
Lyra approached him carefully. "You're bleeding."
He looked down. The brand still glowed faintly. "Just a mark. Nothing more."
Ashen's eyes flickered, studying the sigil. "Three gods awakened. The storm, the sea, and the sun. The world remembers you now, Ethan."
He stared into the endless horizon, where dawn was breaking anew — brighter, cleaner, almost merciful.
"Then we keep moving," he said softly. "Before memory decides to forget us."
Shadowfang unfurled his wings, their fire shimmering with new light. As they rose into the sky, the desert below reflected the dawn — a sea of glass and gold, whispering the same word again and again.
> Truth.
---