They traveled west—toward the fractured ridge bordering the human provinces. Oryzzell needed time. Space. Answers.
But the Mark had other plans.
On the third night, he felt it twitch. Not pain—hunger.
He jerked awake in a cold sweat, the Brand on his shoulder glowing, pulsing like it was calling to something nearby.
Lyra stirred. "Another vision?"
"No," he whispered. "Something's coming."
Then the snow fell.
Black snow.
The sky tore open, and a rift bloomed in the air like a festering wound.
From it dropped a figure—cloaked in ragged robes, eyes glowing green.
It wasn't a demon. Not exactly.
It was an Echo.
A memory given form. A broken piece of Myrzael's will.
"You bear His mark," the Echo croaked, voice made of rust and wind. "You are unworthy."
It raised a hand. The ground beneath Oryzzell turned to obsidian glass. Lyra screamed.
Oryzzell rose slowly, Aeon Severance whispering in his hand.
The Echo struck first—chains of spectral bone snaking from its sleeves.
Oryzzell danced through them, slicing, spinning, but the chains regrew instantly.
Lyra called out, "Behind you!"
Too late.
A spear of cursed ice impaled his thigh. He staggered—but stayed standing.
> Use the Brand, the voice in his mind whispered.
Burn it. Rule it.
He shook his head.
No.
Not this time.
Instead, he focused.
The blade in his hand—the Aeon Severance—began to shimmer, reacting to his will.
"I don't need your curse," he snarled at the Echo. "I have my oath."
The blade split in two, forming a twin-edged glaive, its edge glowing deep crimson.
Oryzzell surged forward, moving faster than thought.
One slash.
Two.
On the third, he shouted, "Void Rend!"
The glaive tore through the Echo's essence, unraveling it like threads of smoke.
It screamed—and then evaporated.
The rift closed.
The snow stopped.
He collapsed to one knee.
Lyra rushed to his side, eyes wide.
"You didn't use the Brand," she whispered.
"No," he muttered. "But I wanted to."
That frightened him more than anything.
Because every time he resisted...
…the Brand smiled.