The fire hadn't gone out.
It crackled softly beneath Tarn's skin as he flew toward the next island. His wings — forged of molten red flame and searing hatred — hissed against the sky like a storm denied.
The wind was cold up here. But not cold enough to kill the heat inside him.
The spear hadn't spoken since the fight with Serapha.
Not a word.
But Tarn felt it watching.
Waiting.
The next island had no name.
Just a place forgotten.
Hidden above the clouds, suspended between shattered rings of stone and lightning. The gods called it "Obscura" — the Silent Pillar.
But the Ishvalans had a different name for it:
The Library of Broken Truth.
Every tribe whispered of it.A place where knowledge died.Where the gods buried their mistakes.
No one who entered came back the same.
Or… at all.
Tarn landed at its edge.Smoke curled from his boots as they touched ancient stone.
The ground here was cold.Not just in temperature — in spirit.
Dead gods were buried beneath it.
He stepped forward.
A massive gate blocked his path, carved with glyphs that shimmered when his red eyes passed over them.
"Only the Flame May Enter."
It opened without him touching it.
The fire inside him — or perhaps the thing watching through it — had been expected.
Inside, it was quiet.
No wind.
No light, except the pale glow of floating lanterns that drifted in lazy spirals.
Books. Scrolls. Sealed urns of memory.
All untouched.
All humming.
Tarn walked slowly.Past broken statues of forgotten gods.Past chains as thick as trees, rusted with divine blood.
And then…
He saw it.
A mural — spanning the entire wall.
Painted in ash and bone.
It showed a god with red eyes. Red wings. A black spear.
Standing in a sea of fire.
Alone.
And above him… not Serapha. Not the King.
But Drethis.
Tarn moved closer.Symbols swirled around the mural, ancient runes that lit up as his eyes scanned them.
Words formed.
Sentences.
"The Flame Was First.""Before Light, Before Stars, There Was Wrath.""He Was Sealed, Not Slain.""And His Inheritor Shall Burn What Remains."
Tarn stepped back.
His breath trembled.
"Inheritor…?"
The spear pulsed.
"You are not me."
"But you are enough."
The voice of Drethis.Whispering now.Closer.
Tarn turned—
But the library was empty.
No—not empty.
He felt it before he saw it.
A presence.
Buried deep below.
Under layers of stone and broken magic.
He found the stairwell.
Spiraling down into the black.
Deeper than the island's core.
Each step he took, the flame inside him surged.
The spear grew heavier.
Memories not his own flickered through his skull:
Cities on fire
A sun pulled from the sky
Screaming gods, dying like insects
Chains — endless, suffocating chains
And at the center of it all…
Himself.
Or… what he might become.
He reached the bottom.
A vault.
Carved from black stone that swallowed sound.
Inside—
A single coffin.
Chained from every direction.Sealed in 77 runes.Cracks running along the edges, leaking smoke.
Tarn approached.
And there it was.
A mirror, built into the coffin's face.
He looked into it.
Saw not his reflection.
But Drethis.
Eyes like suns collapsing.Body made of moving flame.A god whose fire hated even light itself.
And Drethis looked at him.
Smiled.
"Burn it all."
The words weren't shouted.
They didn't echo.
They etched themselves inside Tarn's bones.
He staggered back.
"Why… me?"
"Because you survived."
"Because you remember."
"Because they fear you."
Tarn's heart pounded.
He fell to his knees.
The spear clattered beside him, singing a low, slow tune.
He thought of Kashira.The screaming.The blood.The betrayal.
He thought of his tribe's gods.Of silence.Of abandonment.
And finally…
He thought of vengeance.
He stood.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
A tear rolled down his cheek — and hissed into steam.
"Then let them fear me."
He touched the coffin.
Every seal shattered at once.
Not open.
Not released.
Just… broken.
A signal.
Far above, on the highest island of the gods…
The King's throne cracked.
The sky dimmed.
And Serapha felt it — her eyes widened.
"He found it…"
Behind her, the King rose from his seat.
Eyes like galaxies.
Voice like the sound of space tearing.
"Begin the Cull."