The Fourth Lock had no key.
It did not shimmer, roar, or stand in stone.
It dreamed.
A ring of silence circled its domain—so absolute that even Aralya's heartbeat ceased to echo. This was not a place within the world, but a wound beneath it. The Vault recoiled from this place as though ashamed of what it held.
Zeirion stepped forward.
The sigils above the threshold were not of gods or sovereigns.
They were his.
Written in his own blood, long before time calcified into cycles.
"This lock… is yours," Aralya said, voice barely above breath.
He nodded.
"The only prison I feared," he murmured.
The Memory That Screams
With each step toward the threshold, it awoke.
Not a person.
Not a weapon.
Not a force.
But a memory.
A memory so powerful it became a sentient echo—one that had refused to fade, that had gathered all its grief, rage, and betrayal... and festered.
They called it The Sovereign That Shouldn't Have Been.
Born in the future that Zeirion had annihilated. A version of himself that had embraced annihilation completely, that had broken not only the realms but the soul of creation itself.
"He failed," Zeirion whispered. "And in that failure, he became what even Oblivion feared."
Aralya's fingers tightened around his.
"You locked away a future version of yourself?"
"No," he said quietly. "I locked away the possibility of him."
Within the Lock
When they stepped beyond the veil, time ceased.
They walked a plain of white ash, where skeletal stars hung low and unmoving. At the center stood a single black throne, broken at its base. Upon it sat a figure.
He wore Zeirion's face.
But his eyes… were empty.
He looked up.
"You finally came," the echo said.
Aralya tensed. "Is it conscious?"
"Only when I'm near," Zeirion replied.
The echo—this failed Zeirion, this Broken Sovereign—stood. Chains of golden regret trailed from his wrists, rattling like forgotten hymns.
"They all betrayed you," it hissed. "The gods. The mortals. Even her."
It pointed at Aralya.
Zeirion's gaze did not waver.
"She stood beside me. You… chose to burn everything."
The Broken Sovereign laughed. A sound like weeping steel.
"And still they feared me. Because I told the truth. Because I shattered the lie of hope."
The white plain cracked.
From the throne burst shadow-flame—fragments of what the Broken Sovereign once destroyed: cities, realms, hearts. He hurled them at Zeirion.
And the Fourth Lock began to open.
Sovereign vs Sovereign
Eclipsion flew to Zeirion's hand, humming with fury.
The Broken Sovereign's blade—a jagged twin, veined in despair—met it in midair.
The clash was not of steel.
It was of philosophy.
Of futures that fought for supremacy.
"You could have ended suffering," the Broken Sovereign said.
"By ending everything," Zeirion answered. "That was never power. That was surrender."
They collided again, and again.
Every strike painted galaxies in ruin.
Aralya moved like a storm between dying stars, shielding Zeirion from the memory shards hurled at his heart—fragments from the life he might have lived if he had chosen differently.
A world where Aralya had died.
A world where Zeirion ruled alone atop a throne of corpses.
A world where his name was not remembered—but feared.
The Broken Sovereign roared:
"You fear me because I am your truth."
Zeirion, eyes glowing with a fury cold and ancient, said:
"No. You are what happens when I forget why I fight."
And with that, he shattered the echo's blade.
He drove Eclipsion into the white plain—and the Fourth Lock broke.
The Truth That Awaits
The realm screamed as the Broken Sovereign dissolved, not in pain—but in relief.
He smiled.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For choosing her."
And then he was gone.
In his place, the white plain fell away—revealing a staircase that descended not into darkness, but into light.
Warm. Gentle. Alive.
Aralya looked at Zeirion, confused.
"This is not what I expected."
"It's the truth behind the Vault," Zeirion said softly. "It was never a prison."
"Then what?"
"It's a promise. A truth I sealed away—because I was afraid of what it meant."
He took her hand.
They walked down together.
Toward a realm untouched by sorrow. Toward a name Zeirion had dared never speak aloud again.
A name waiting to awaken.