Chapter 47 – Fractured Soul, Flame That Refuses to Die
The secret chamber of the Council was always silent—not because no one spoke, but because too many things had never been spoken. Cloaked in spells of unknown origin, the place felt forbidden, as though it held a secret capable of either destroying every portal or uniting all beings of form and name.
Soft footsteps pressed against the cold stone floor. The walls were lined with ancient symbols, pulsing faintly, as if they no longer recognized the world beyond.
Someone stood before an altar hidden behind a veil of astral light. Their face concealed beneath the shadow of a long cloak, their movements calm… almost filled with a painful gratitude.
In their hand lay an amulet—its center fractured like an old wound that never healed.
A voice, quiet as song, rose:
"With blood forgotten by history,
With a name betrayed by time,
With a body never enough,
I call you—Elarion, the one who cannot die, even when darkness veils the night sky."
The air thickened. Light bent low, and time itself stalled.
A gentle vortex bloomed in the chamber. From within, shards of light gathered. A rift in the dimension opened like an aged flower too weary to bloom.
And then—he appeared.
A fragment—shaped like a human face, yet too serene to be mortal. Eyes closed, hair flowing like strands of time, and skin shimmering like star-ash.
That face… smiled.
And then—fractured.
Craaaack.
The crack spread swiftly into hundreds of lines. Like glass shattering without end. The fragment exploded in silence, scattering pieces across the chamber. But most of them surged toward one direction—toward a figure who had slipped quietly into the Council's secret hall.
They were thrown back, body crashing into a stone pillar. Eyes wide, mind unable to grasp what had just befallen them. The fragments of light invaded, seeping through pores, blood, veins, bones—burning from within. Organs writhed as though cooked by fire.
Not ordinary fire. This was flame of memory, of identity, of truth.
And their body—woven from lies, from layer upon layer of false destiny—could not contain it.
They writhed, coughing blood. And the blood ignited, setting the air ablaze.
Bones cracked. Organs hissed like iron seared by spells. Their eyes became hollow orbs of light before burning from within.
Yet they remained conscious.
"N-no… wh-what… is this…?"
The voice that left their mouth was neither human nor spirit.
It was the echo of a soul shattered and forced to bear something older than the world and the heavens themselves.
Elsewhere—in a throne built from the remnants of astral wills—Maxcen sat in eternity.
Thousands of faceless beings sang praises to him. A hymn without sound, yet laden with meaning. Zephyr stood at the forefront, gaze fixed upon his king.
Then suddenly—the throne cracked.
Light from the human world pierced his dominion. The echo of that fragment broke through dimensional boundaries, startling Maxcen.
"Elarion…? No. That cannot be… he…"
He rose. For the first time since the dawn of ruin, Maxcen rose from his seat.
In his eyes—black as a starless night—was fear. Not because Elarion lived. But because Elarion had shattered himself into the world.
And now, his fragments flew free.
Back in the secret chamber—
The figure crawled, half their body burning from within. Their hand grasped at anything, but everything had already collapsed.
The light within them was no longer their own. It was the flame of the first human. The flame of the great sorcerer who refused to be bound by fate.
"I… I only wanted to know…"
"What does all of this mean…"
"Are we nothing but puppets…"
No answer came. Only the room splitting apart. The ground quaked.
The secret chamber turned into a sacred altar of immolation.
And amidst the destruction, they smiled.
For in their final moment, they had seen something no one could ever possess—Truth.
A truth still hidden. Perhaps known only to the Seven of the Council.
—End of Chapter—
Elsewhere, far from the ruins and the light, Enver raised his gaze to the sky.
There was a fracture in the air. An ancient whisper cut through silence:
"Elarion… has returned. But not whole. Not gentle. Not as before."
The world would change.
And Enver knew he must choose:
To become the bridge… or the blade.
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