The stair opened into silence.
After the roar of the Green Maw, after the endless crash of chains, the stillness here felt unreal. Draven stepped forward slowly, boots scuffing across stone polished smooth as glass. The chamber stretched wide and circular, larger than any he had yet seen.
The walls shone faintly, not with cracks or glyphs but with reflection. His own face stared back at him, warped in green shimmer. Behind him, Feyra's small form was elongated, twisted into something shadow-like. Stonehide's plated body bent in the reflection as though it were breaking under weight.
The hum persisted, steady now, slowing into something measured. Not frantic, not crushing. Like a heartbeat at rest.
Draven's chest ached in rhythm with it.
He swallowed, voice raw from battle: "Another test."
The chamber answered.
The reflections rippled.
One by one, the walls melted into light. The floor softened, stone cracking into soil. Air warmed. The ceiling split open, revealing a sky not gray with smoke but blue, clean, stretching endless.
Draven staggered back.
It was Branthollow.
The village whole. Fields golden with grain, children laughing by wells, beasts wandering without chains. And there—
"Mira?"
Her voice was as he remembered it: light, warm, full of mischief. She waved at him from the path, auburn hair falling across her brow. Feyra bounded forward, no longer a Servitor but radiant, coat shimmering green, her eyes bright with trust. Stonehide lumbered behind, vast and noble, scales glowing like polished jade.
Everything perfect.
For one long heartbeat, Draven almost wept.
The voice slid through the air, smooth as honey:
"It can be yours. All of it."
Draven turned.
No figure stood there, only light. But within it hung a mark — glowing gold, curved lines twisting like a sigil. A slave mark, yet unlike any he had seen. Not jagged or bloody. Elegant. Beautiful.
"Take it. With it, you can command. You can protect them. No chains of pain, no rebellion. Just peace."
The mark burned brighter, and his hand tingled. He looked down — the sigil was already glowing across his palm, golden fire curling up his arm.
Mira's voice called again: "Draven, with this, you can save us."
She stepped closer, eyes shining. Feyra and Stonehide flanked her, their bodies strong, flawless. Both lowered their heads, as if bowing to him.
His throat tightened. His chest trembled.
It's what I wanted, isn't it?
A world without war. Without death. Without chains.
He reached out.
His palm hovered over Mira's. The mark flared, golden light flooding the fields. His beasts glowed, perfected, serene. For a moment, Draven's lips parted — yes, yes, let me hold this, let me end this struggle—
But then he saw.
Feyra's eyes.
Not free. Empty.
Stonehide's too — gaze dull, lifeless, unthinking. The same hollow stare he had seen on beasts branded by Dominion.
A perfect cage.
Draven's hand shook violently. He tore it back, chest searing.
"No…" His voice cracked. "Not like this."
The mark burned hotter, sigil crawling up his arm, branding flesh. Mira's face faltered, smile flickering into ash. The fields wavered.
Draven roared, drew his knife, and slashed across the glowing mark.
Pain exploded.
Light shattered.
The illusion screamed as Branthollow crumbled, golden fields burning into black. Mira's laughter broke into static, then silence. The beasts dissolved, their noble forms unraveling into chains.
The chamber convulsed, walls cracking.
Draven collapsed to his knees, breath tearing, arm bleeding.
The smoke cleared.
And from it stepped something vast.
The Verdant Warden.
A dragon-shape, antlers branching like an endless forest. Wings draped in vines that shimmered faintly with flowers. Eyes twin suns of emerald, ancient and calm, yet heavy with weight.
Draven froze, blood dripping down his arm, heart hammering like a drum.
The Warden's gaze fixed on him.
It did not open its mouth, yet its presence pressed into his skull, into his chest, filling his lungs with words that were not words:
"Life is choice. You chose."
Its antlers blazed, vines spilling blossoms that withered as they fell.
Feyra crawled to Draven's side, pressing against him, eyes glowing faint. Stonehide lumbered close, battered yet unbroken, scales shimmering green.
The dragon's shadow lingered one heartbeat longer—then it vanished, dissolving into motes of emerald light.
At the chamber's far wall, stone cracked, revealing a stair spiraling downward, lit in emerald fire.
Draven rose, unsteady but standing. Feyra at one side, Stonehide at the other.
His voice was low, raw, but unbroken:
"The heart of the Ruins waits."
And together, they stepped into the glow.