The air grew colder as they approached the heart of Alsira.
The tower loomed above them like a wound in the world, its twisted spire wrapped in soul-thread that pulsed like veins under skin. Once a beacon of unity between realms, it now resonated with fractured chants and the distant screams of the dead. Each level hummed with raw, unstable soul energy—hungry and ancient.
Asher stared up, sword in hand. "This is where it ends."
Elira floated beside him, barely more than light now. "Or where it begins again."
Emilia touched the base of the tower. The stone burned cold under her fingers. Her pendant pulsed in rhythm with the tower's breathless hum.
"There are voices," she whispered. "Inside the walls. Echoes of the fallen."
"They call it the Tower of Echoes for a reason," Liaen muttered. "It holds every soul that died defending Alsira."
Elira's glow dimmed. "And now, the Cult uses them as fuel."
They stepped inside.
The interior was vast and hollow—like the ribcage of a colossal, long-dead beast. Staircases spiraled up the walls, broken in places, twisted unnaturally, as if the tower resisted their climb. Soul-marked statues lined the path—visages of the Cult's high priests, their stone eyes replaced with black crystals.
The moment they crossed the threshold, the whispers surged.
"Why did you leave me…"
"My child still burns…"
"Give us back our names…"
Emilia flinched. "They're not just echoes. They're bound."
"Keep moving," Asher said, voice steady. "They'll try to break your mind before your body."
Elira flickered violently, struggling to stay tethered. "The threads here are spun from death… from grief."
Liaen summoned a flare of soulfire, warding off the worst of the spirits.
"They fear her," he said, nodding to Emilia.
"No," she whispered. "They remember me."
Halfway up, they reached the Hall of Chains.
A massive chamber open to the sky, stormlight flickering overhead. Suspended from glowing runes were hundreds of soul-bound bodies—mages, warriors, even children—each connected to a pulsing web of cursed threads feeding upward into the tower's core.
Emilia dropped to her knees. "This… this is what they did to my village…"
Elira floated to one of the bound. Her voice was soft, almost reverent. "They're still aware. Held between death and memory."
Asher's knuckles whitened on his sword. "Can we free them?"
Elira looked up. "Only by severing the source. At the peak."
Asher turned his gaze skyward. "Then we keep climbing."
The upper floors warped around them.
Stairs bent back upon themselves. Walls pulsed with breath and bone. Time stuttered, reversed, leapt forward. Liaen stumbled, nearly collapsing under the weight of twisted soul-pressure.
"They're folding space," Elira warned. "It's not a tower anymore. It's a ritual."
And then—they reached the final gate.
An archway carved with the Cult's true name—unspoken, unreadable. Soul-thread wrapped across it like sinew, pulsing. At the center stood a figure cloaked in shadow and bone, power crackling from every breath.
"Welcome," the high priest said, his voice layered with a thousand echoes. "To the end of your path."
Asher raised his blade. "And the beginning of your fall."
The battle began.
Liaen unleashed stormfire, burning through the writhing threads that clawed at them. Elira weaved shields of light around Emilia, her form unraveling with each burst.
The high priest hovered above—shifting between forms, controlling the tower itself. Statues moved at his will. Chains lashed. The echoes screamed.
Emilia stepped forward.
Her pendant shattered.
Phoenix fire burst from her chest—golden, radiant, consuming. It didn't scorch. It purified.
"I am Emilia Gray," she said, her voice carrying across every stone. "Daughter of Elenra the Soulweaver. Last light of the Phoenix Line."
Her soul ignited.
And the tower screamed.