Kael stood before the scorched remains of the encampment where his unit had made camp the night before. Smoke curled skyward like the final breath of a dying beast, painting the sky with streaks of ash and sorrow. The fire had long died down, but the stench of burning flesh and twisted metal clung to the air like a curse. He said nothing as he moved through the wreckage, stepping over the remnants of shattered armor and discarded weapons. The enemies had struck with uncanny precision.
He knelt beside the scorched insignia of one of the younger recruits—Taren, barely older than thirteen. His eyes narrowed.
"Blood magic," Kael muttered. The sigils scorched into the dirt weren't unfamiliar—they were mirrors of his own design. Someone had copied his style, or worse, someone from within had betrayed them.
Selan approached quietly behind him, her footsteps barely making a sound across the blackened earth. "It wasn't bandits," she said. "Too clean. Too fast. And they left no wounded."
Kael rose. "The Purifiers."
Selan's face darkened. "We weren't even on their list. Not until now."
Kael didn't respond. His gaze drifted to the north, toward the jagged outline of the Mirrored Hills. Word was that the Vault of Silence was hidden somewhere deep within that shattered range—if the cult's intel was to be believed.
"Then we're out of time," he said. "We take the Vault before they can erase us."
Their journey into the hills was slow and cautious. Every sound seemed too sharp. Every gust of wind too cold. Selan led the way through ancient trails littered with the bones of dead wars. The Mirrored Hills were named not for their appearance, but for the strange crystalline outcroppings that reflected not just images—but thoughts, fragments of memory and emotion that bled into the minds of travelers.
"Don't look directly into the crystal faces," Selan warned. "They draw in pieces of your soul. You'll start seeing things."
Kael didn't heed her warning.
He stared into one jagged mirrorstone as they passed. In its surface, he saw himself—a child, bloody and screaming, as Gaelus fell in a pool of red and shadow. Another step, another flash: Kael as a teenager, blood-covered scythe in hand, standing over a field of corpses—some of which bore his own face.
He tore his gaze away, breathing heavy.
Selan studied him. "You alright?"
"Never. But I keep walking."
At dusk, they reached the entrance: a cleft in the rock, sealed by a massive obsidian door etched with runes that pulsed with a heartbeat of their own. Kael pressed a hand against it. The door resisted at first—then seemed to recognize his aura. The blood inside his veins surged, resonating with something buried deep within the Vault.
The runes flashed red, then blue, then faded.
"It's sealed with a fragment of your bloodline," Selan whispered. "Only someone like you could open it."
Kael didn't answer. He was already pulling a flask from beneath his cloak—pure blood, siphoned from earlier victims, preserved in cold enchantment. With a practiced motion, he drew a symbol on the door with the fluid, the scythe on his back vibrating slightly as if eager.
The door groaned. The mountain trembled.
And then it opened.
The Vault of Silence was aptly named. Inside, the air was thick with stillness. No echo returned their footsteps. No sound registered as Selan whispered a spell of light. The walls were black, glassy, etched with glowing white script written in a language neither of them recognized.
Kael's head began to pound.
"This place is... wrong," he muttered. He gripped the scythe tighter.
"It's resisting you. The Vault's magic is ancient. Living. It doesn't want to be opened."
Kael grinned faintly. "Then it's going to hate what happens next."
They pushed deeper.
The first guardian struck from the shadows. A blur of motion, a shriek like broken metal grinding through stone. Kael spun, scythe arcing in a perfect half-moon. Blood exploded in the air, caught in his magic and hardened into blades mid-flight. The creature—a twisted golem of bone and broken weapons—shattered under the assault.
More came.
Selan wove a net of shadowflame, her fingers dancing in complex sigils. The flame didn't burn—it whispered, corroding the minds of the constructs until they collapsed under the weight of imagined horrors. Kael ducked under a rusted spear, drove his scythe upward through another golem's chest, then summoned a shockwave of blood energy that flung enemies down the corridor like dolls.
But the fight was unrelenting. For every enemy they felled, more rose. The Vault wasn't just protected—it was aware, adapting.
Selan shouted, "We can't hold this for long!"
Kael's eyes flashed. He slammed his palm to the ground, pouring his own blood into a massive rune—an ancient glyph Gaelus had once forbidden him to ever use.
"I'm done asking permission."
The glyph erupted in crimson light.
Everything stopped. Time staggered. The creatures froze mid-motion as if suspended in a memory.
Selan stared. "What did you just do?"
Kael stood, pale and panting. "I erased their purpose. They're guardians—but now they don't remember what they're guarding."
And the path was clear.
At the Vault's heart stood a plinth of black stone, atop which hovered a sphere of red glass—the Eye of Varethos. Said to show the wielder glimpses of all possibilities, it was a relic lost since the fall of the Dominion of Balance.
Kael reached for it.
But Selan grabbed his wrist.
"You sure? Once you take that, the last of who you are might vanish."
Kael looked at her. And for once, something flickered in his eyes that wasn't cynicism or anger.
"I don't know who I am anymore. Maybe this is the only way to find out."
He touched the Eye.
The Vault exploded with light.
Visions surged—countless futures, endless deaths, endless betrayals. Kael saw himself as a tyrant. A god. A martyr. A boy holding his father's hand. A man alone in a burning world. Each path twisted, curled, spiraled into madness.
He screamed.
And then it stopped.
Kael stood motionless, breath shallow, holding the Eye. His scythe had transformed—sleeker, humming with unstable power.
Selan took a step back. "What did it show you?"
Kael's voice was hollow.
"Everything. And nothing I wanted."
Outside the Vault, the sky had darkened. Purifiers were approaching—dozens of them, led by Inquisitor Valen, clad in white armor etched with silver flames.
Kael looked at Selan.
"Time to test if the Eye was worth the blood."
He stepped forward, aura igniting in crimson and obsidian flame. The scythe pulsed like a second heart.
The final war had begun.