The road to Nythralis was no road at all.
Beyond the safety of the known lands, maps became useless. Paths twisted where they should have been straight, and whole forests shimmered like illusions when approached. The very world seemed to resist their passage.
Aran led the way, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his sword. Elira walked beside him, her senses stretched thin, feeling the subtle currents of magic that tainted the earth.
By the third day, the land itself broke open.
They stood at the edge of a vast rift—blackened stone spiraling downward into mist. Across the chasm lay the remnants of an ancient bridge, shattered long ago by forces unknown.
Vaerin cursed softly. "How do we cross?"
Aran studied the ruins, then the swirling currents of magic below. "We don't. We build."
Using ancient techniques taught by the Flamebound, Aran and his companions shaped the earth with runes and raw willpower. Stone by stone, they fashioned a new crossing, though each effort drained them deeply.
As they worked, Elira knelt by the rift's edge, eyes closed.
She could hear it—whispers rising from the mist below. Voices that sounded like Aran's... her own... but twisted, hollowed, wrong.
"We are being watched," she murmured.
When they finally crossed, night had fallen.
On the other side, the trees were different—gray and brittle, like bones left too long in the sun. Shadows moved among them, but when Aran swung his sword, they dissolved into mist.
Nythralis lay ahead, hidden in the folds of forgotten reality.
And somewhere in its ruined heart, the Hollow Star dreamed of a world where the Flame was extinguished—and memory with it.
Aran pressed forward, Elira close at his side, his promise burning brighter than fear.
We will remember. We will not fall.