Winds howled across the scarred plains beyond Alsira, thick with ash and the faint hum of soul magic. On the horizon, the Tower of Names loomed like a spear driven into the heavens—black, spiraled, unnatural. No birds circled it. No light reached its peak.
Asher stood on a broken overlook, flanked by Liaen, Emilia, and Elira. They had traveled for two days since leaving the refuge, following long-forgotten soul-weaver paths. The deeper they moved into the forsaken land, the more reality twisted—echoes bent wrong, shadows moved without cause, and time felt uncertain.
"There it is," Liaen muttered. "Built on bones and prayers. The Cult's monument."
Asher's jaw clenched. "The Tower of Names. Every soul they broke, every truth they twisted—it's carved into that stone."
"And that's where Sareth wants us," Elira added, her glow steady, though faint.
Emilia's hand trembled around the old soul-weaver pendant they'd recovered. Her dreams hadn't stopped—visions of a battlefield soaked in sorrow, of a spear of void.
"I've seen it," she murmured. "In my sleep."
Asher turned to her. "Then maybe the tower's tied to your power."
She nodded slowly. "I think… I was born there."
They reached the tower at twilight. Its entrance yawned open—a jagged mouth flanked by statues of robed figures whose faces had long eroded. Ancient soul-script etched their names into the base, glowing faintly in the fading light.
Liaen traced the script. "These weren't just priests. They were the original founders of the Cult of Shattered Names."
Asher's hand tightened on his sword. "Let's hope they stay stone."
Elira stepped through the archway first, her light cutting a path through the swirling dark. Inside, the air was colder than the grave. Yet Emilia felt drawn forward. Each step echoed strangely, as if recorded by unseen ears.
The first chamber was circular, its walls lined with thousands of inscribed names.
"What is this?" Emilia asked.
Elira hovered closer. "An archive. Every soul the cult has broken. Their names etched here to trap them."
One name suddenly flared red.
Elira Reed.
Asher surged forward—but the light vanished.
"I'm here," Elira said quietly. "But I'm no longer theirs."
The tower creaked.
Something was listening.
As they climbed deeper, illusions shimmered around them—memories, regrets, wounds that hadn't healed. Liaen saw flames devour his village. Asher relived Elira's death, again and again. Emilia saw… nothing.
Only a void.
Until a voice slithered from the dark:
"You were never real."
She staggered.
"No," she whispered. "I am real. I feel. I remember."
Asher caught her hand. "Ignore it. This place feeds on fear."
But inside, something shifted. If she had no memories before the forest… what was she?
At the tower's summit, they found the sanctum.
A wide dais, soul mirrors floating midair—each showing not the body, but the soul. Asher's reflection revealed a man worn by grief and duty. Liaen's flickered like a storm. Elira's was barely visible at all.
Emilia stepped before hers.
The mirror didn't reflect her.
It showed a girl inside a soul chamber, priests chanting around her, her name turned into a weapon.
"She is the Vessel. The soul-weaver reborn."
Her knees gave out.
Elira caught her. "You're more than what they made you."
A slow clap echoed through the chamber.
Sareth stepped from the shadows, cloaked in a robe of black thread stitched with whispering names.
"Welcome home," he said, eyes locked on Emilia.
"Daughter of Memory. Child of Soul. It's time you remembered everything."