A week after the fall of Virellium, silence settled like snow.
The city was rebuilding. Not in stone, but in soul. Free mages lit lanterns along the roads. Children laughed in the streets again. For once, Callan didn't feel like he was walking through a battlefield.
But the Heartflame was restless.
It whispered of a name spoken in the flames of the old world.
A voice in ash.
"Seek the Oracle of Black Glass."
And when Callan said that name aloud, Caedra's face went pale.
"She lives in the Crater of Dead Stars," Caedra whispered. "But no one who goes there comes back."
Callan just tightened the wrap on his blade.
"Then I'll be the first."
The Road to the Crater
The Crater of Dead Stars was not marked on any map.
It had no trade routes. No known paths. Only legend.
It was said to be the grave of a fallen star, a place where time buckled and truth unraveled. Where dreams bled into waking life and only those with broken souls could find their way in.
Perfect for Callan.
They traveled north, out of the silver lands, past forests that refused to speak and lakes that reflected futures instead of faces.
With him were Ren, Solenne, and Seris. Caedra remained behind to guide Virellium's rebirth.
"Try not to burn anything else," she'd told him.
He almost smiled.
Almost.
The Windless Expanse
Three days into their journey, the wind died.
Literally.
No breeze.
No movement.
Even fire didn't flicker.
Solenne whispered, "We're entering the Crater's influence."
The sky overhead was a deep, unnatural indigo—neither night nor day. The earth cracked beneath their boots, whispering forgotten names.
At the edge of a ravine, they found a stone gate half-swallowed by sand, carved with a single phrase:
"Only the broken may see her."
Seris stepped forward. "What does that mean?"
Callan didn't answer.
He just walked through.
A World Turned Inside Out
The Crater of Dead Stars was not a crater.
It was a reflection.
Inside, the sky hovered below their feet and the ground arched above their heads. Trees grew with roots in the air. Water flowed in loops that defied gravity.
And time stuttered.
They watched their own footsteps vanish behind them as if they'd never walked.
They passed through valleys filled with their own voices—fragments of conversations they'd never had. Dreams they'd forgotten.
At one point, Solenne blinked and spoke softly, "My father's alive in this place."
Callan didn't ask.
Because he, too, had seen something he could not name.
The Mirror Choir
At the heart of the Crater stood a cathedral made of black glass.
Its spires reached down into the earth like fangs.
Inside, a thousand reflections waited—each one of them, twisted, shattered, screaming.
A choir of mirrors that sang only truths.
Solenne's mirror whispered, "You tried to be a savior. But all your patients still died."
Ren's mirror hissed, "You left them behind because you were afraid."
Seris's laughed: "You say you fight for justice, but you just want revenge."
And Callan's?
It didn't speak.
It bled.
A crack formed from crown to chin.
And the reflection stepped out.
The Duel of the Self
The mirror Callan was not like the one from the Dreaming Tower.
This one was not proud.
He was ashamed.
"You shouldn't be alive," the reflection said. "You were meant to die that day. You were meant to end it all. Why didn't you burn with the rest?"
Callan drew no weapon.
He simply stepped forward. "Because someone needed to remember."
The reflection raised a hand of flame. Callan raised his bare palm.
They clashed—not with steel, but with memory.
Every face he failed.
Every promise he broke.
Every life his power destroyed.
And still—he stood.
"I am not your guilt," Callan whispered. "I am your resolve."
The reflection wept molten tears.
And vanished.
The Oracle Appears
When the mirrors shattered, the air shifted.
From the shadows of the glass cathedral, a figure emerged.
She wore a robe of ink and a crown of bones. Her eyes were pools of still water, and in them swam stars that had died a thousand years ago.
"You are not the first to reach me," the Oracle of Black Glass said.
"But you are the first to walk through your own fire."
Callan bowed slightly. "I need answers."
She raised her hand. In her palm burned a vision.
The First Flame
The Oracle showed him a memory not his own.
A great battlefield beneath a blood moon.
A man—Draeven, the Ashen General—stood atop a mountain of corpses, facing a goddess of light. Behind her, towers of heaven. Behind him, cities of fire.
They had once been lovers.
Now, they were gods of opposing creeds.
And Draeven lost.
He sealed his power, splintered his soul, and vanished from the cycle.
The goddess erased all record of him—except for the flame he buried deep in the world's heart.
The Heartflame.
"I was born from his ashes," Callan murmured.
"No," the Oracle said. "You are his ashes."
What Comes Next
Solenne, Ren, and Seris stood silently as the Oracle spoke of futures not yet set.
A second war was coming.
The goddess had awakened.
Her order would descend again—not as light, but as purification. And the world would burn in white flame if left unchallenged.
"You are not the villain," the Oracle told Callan.
"But you will be painted as one."
The only path forward would be one of fire, loss, and war.
And if he wished to save the world, he must first be willing to be hated by it.
Leaving the Crater
They left the Crater changed.
Callan's eyes burned with a new clarity. The Heartflame no longer whispered—it sang.
They emerged into a world that suddenly felt too small for what was coming.
Above them, storm clouds formed a spiral.
And in the distance, a tower of white light had risen overnight—unseen, untouched, unnatural.
The first temple of the goddess had returned.
Solenne looked up. "They're already here."
Callan didn't blink.
"Then we begin."