The collapse of the Vault left Alsira humming with unease. The sky above the capital remained a few shades darker, as if the heavens themselves mourned what had been disturbed below. Though Malric's throne had been destroyed, the presence of the Cult of Shattered Names had left behind stains deeper than blood—marks that would not fade easily.
In a quiet chamber within the Citadel's west wing—one of the few sanctuaries still untouched by chaos—Asher sat alone, lit by the flicker of a single candle. Before him lay a stack of brittle letters, their parchment yellowed with age and sealed with the faded crest of the Soulwarden Corps.
Letters from Malric.
"You kept them," Elira said gently, appearing beside him.
"I could never bring myself to burn them," Asher murmured, sliding one open. "They were from before… before he fell. Back when I still believed in him."
The handwriting inside was bold, confident—lines filled with camaraderie, shared victories, jokes exchanged between battles. Malric's words painted a man who had once stood for something.
Asher's fingers curled around the parchment. "What happened to him wasn't madness. It was belief—twisted into ambition."
"Or pain left too long in silence," Elira said quietly.
Asher said nothing.
Elsewhere in the Citadel, Emilia roamed the archives alongside Liaen. The dagger she had taken from the Vault pulsed faintly at her hip, responding to her mood like a tethered ghost.
"What are we even looking for?" she asked, her voice echoing between the shelves.
Liaen pulled a thick tome from the shelf, brushing off the dust. "Connections. The Cult's roots run deeper than we thought. Look at this."
He flipped the book open to a page filled with hand-drawn diagrams—fractured soulcores, nearly identical to the one they had destroyed. But what chilled them more were the names tied to each shard.
Royalty. Guildmasters. Even Soulwardens.
"They've been among us all along," Emilia whispered.
"They're not just a fringe cult anymore," Liaen said grimly. "They're a network. Hidden in plain sight."
Later that night, Asher stood atop the Citadel's ramparts, gazing out over the wounded city. Beside him, Elira hovered—her glow dimmer than before, her form weaker, worn from the power she'd spent in the Vault.
"Malric said something down there," she murmured. "That he wasn't resurrected—he was rerouted."
Asher frowned. "What does that mean?"
"It means someone tampered with the passage of souls," she said. "Someone reached across the veil and redirected him."
She hesitated.
"Asher… that includes me."
He turned to face her. "No. You came back because of our bond. Because of love. Because we weren't finished."
"But what if someone guided that bond?" she asked. "What if my return wasn't just a miracle… but a manipulation?"
The silence that followed was heavy.
Well past midnight, Emilia returned from the archives, a scroll in hand.
"I found something," she said, unrolling it on the table.
It was a map.
And on it were marked five Thrones of Shattered Names—nodes of dark energy scattered across the four realms. Malric's had been just one.
The others were still active.
And the central node—largest of all—lay directly beneath Alsira.
A second, deeper throne.
One not yet fully awakened.
"We didn't destroy the heart," Asher said, eyes fixed on the map. "Only the hand."
Emilia nodded, her voice low. "The true core of the Cult… it's still here. Beneath our feet."
Just then, Liaen entered, face grim. "And it's calling to others. Reports are coming in—ghoststorms rising in the east, soul awakenings in the south. Something's stirring across the realms."
Elira flickered faintly. "Then we have no time. The next throne won't wait for us to be ready."
As dawn broke over the city, casting pale light across its fractured skyline, Asher folded the last of Malric's letters and slipped it into his coat. It no longer felt like a relic of the past.
It felt like a warning.
He turned to Elira.
"Whatever brought you back… we'll face it together."
Her glow caught the first rays of morning light.
"Until the end," she whispered.