The Cradle of Echoes rose like a broken crown against the smoky sky.
Jagged towers of black stone and shattered glass spiralled upward, their edges sharp as regrets. Red smoke curled from fissures in the earth, twisting into ghostly shapes that vanished before they could be seen clearly. The air thrummed with a thousand whispers—fragments of memory, sorrow, and rage.
Irisen's heart pounded. The spark inside him flickered, uneasy.
Kareth led the way through the labyrinthine ruins, steps sure despite the unstable ground. "The Cradle holds the remnants of the lost—the voices of those who fell before the gods slept," they said quietly. "Here, the past is alive, but it is also dangerous."
"What happens to those voices?"
"They cling, seeking release. Many become trapped, prisoners of their pain."
As they moved deeper, faint shapes began to materialise—figures shimmering with pale light, flickering between presence and absence. One was a young woman, eyes wide with fear, mouthing silent pleas. Another was a soldier, frozen mid-step, his armour cracked and blackened.
Irisen reached out. His fingertips brushed the spirit of the woman, and a cold sadness seeped into him.
"You're lost," he whispered.
The spirit's lips moved.
"Remember... the flame..."
The Cradle seemed to pulse at her words. The air thickened, and the whispering grew louder—voices overlapping, crying out in pain and hope.
Kareth's grip tightened on Irisen's arm. "We must move quickly. The Cradle can trap the unwary forever."
Suddenly, the ground shook. A deep, guttural roar echoed across the ruins.
From the shadows emerged a monstrous form—a Reclaimed.
Its body was made of cracked stone and smouldering embers, eyes glowing with cold fury. The chains binding it rattled as it advanced, seeking the living flame it sensed within Irisen.
"Run!" Kareth shouted.
Irisen's spark blazed fiercely. He raised his dagger, now burning bright with inner fire.
The Reclaimed charged.
The battle was fierce.
Irisen dodged the crushing blows of the creature's molten fists. Each strike sent sparks flying, but the heat from his flame shielded him. With a cry, he plunged his dagger into the creature's chest. The fire within the blade surged, igniting the stone from within.
The Reclaimed shattered, collapsing into ash and dust.
Breathing heavily, Irisen looked to Kareth.
"Your fire is stronger than I expected."
Kareth nodded. "You've passed another test. But there is more to come."
They pressed on until they reached a chamber deep within the Cradle.
In its centre stood a mirror framed by blackened flame. The surface rippled like water.
Kareth gestured toward it. "This will show you your past—or what remains of it."
Irisen hesitated but stepped forward.
The mirror shimmered, revealing scenes from a life long forgotten.
A boy, younger than he remembered, laughing with a woman with silver hair and eyes like molten gold.
A village burning. Faces twisted in horror.
A voice calling his name.
Then darkness.
Tears streamed down Irisen's face. "I don't remember... Why was I taken?"
Kareth's eyes were grave. "Because you were the spark they feared. The Ashen Lords took you, trying to snuff your flame before it could ignite the world again."
Irisen clenched his fists. "Then I'll burn brighter—for them and for those I lost."
Kareth nodded. "Good. Because your journey is just beginning."
Above, in the fortress of ash and bone, the faceless Ashen Lord spoke again.
"The spark lives."
"Then bind the flame," the unseen voice commanded.
Chains of black fire wrapped tighter around the shadows below.
The war for the realms had begun.