The path twisted upward through a canyon of cracked stone and ember-burned ruins. The spiral
mark on Torian's hand glowed faintly, not in warning—but in recognition. Something ancient waited
ahead, tucked inside the highest gorge where even birds refused to fly.
They had been walking since dawn. Skarn trod beside him with his usual warlike patience, though
his breath came in short puffs. The air here felt thin, almost too still. Torian felt it too—like standing
in a place that had held its breath for centuries.
He crested the final ridge.
There, carved into the face of the mountain, stood a massive structure: half-buried, half-broken, yet
unmistakably deliberate. The front was domed, with walls like blackened glass and flame-scored
stone. A single door remained—tall and sealed, the spiral above it incomplete, fractured at its
center like something shattered from within.
"This is it," Torian whispered.
The Shrine of Reflection.
Skarn growled low—not at danger, but at unease. His eyes tracked the horizon as if expecting the
mountain itself to rise against them.
Torian stepped forward and pressed his palm to the broken spiral.
The door hissed, groaned, and slid open.⸻
Inside, the air was warm—not stifling, not dead, but dense with presence. The floor was smooth
obsidian marked with concentric flame-rings. Along the walls, seven recessed chambers burned
with flame—but the fire did not move like normal. It curled inward, each flame forming a mirrored
shape.
Torian approached the first.
The flame rippled—and a figure stepped forward inside it.
Himself.
Draped in black armor, eyes burning with ember, spiral glowing like molten steel. His voice echoed
before he even opened his mouth.
"They needed a god, so I became one. I saved them all—and ruled them forever."
Torian turned away.
The second fire showed him weeping, alone, in rags, his spiral cracked and bleeding.
Behind him were bodies—Skarn, Karnis, people he didn't know. All dead. His own voice
whispered:
"You weren't strong enough. You never were."
The third fire showed him radiant, winged in light, but his eyes were hollow. He walked
through cities that bowed to him—but they were afraid, not grateful.
One by one, the flames showed him every path he could take.
Every version of himself he feared or desired.
When he reached the seventh flame, it did nothing.
No reflection. No image.Just fire.
Pure. Silent.
Waiting.
Torian stepped into it.
And the world shattered.
⸻
He stood in blackness.
Below his feet: liquid flame, stretching in all directions. The stars above were unfamiliar
—too close, too bright. A ripple ran across the ground, and in its wake rose seven
thrones of burning stone.
Each throne held… himself.
Not reflections.
Possibilities.
They spoke in unison, voices layered like the cracking of wood in fire.
"You've walked the path. Now choose the shape."
"I'm not here to become one of you," Torian said.
"You already are. We are your might. Your fear. Your will."
"No," he whispered. "You're my excuse."
"We are what you could be."
"But I'm not."He stepped forward. Each throne rose in height, growing taller, more intense. One
version of him—the warlord—drew a blade of fire and pointed it at him.
"You need me to win. You'll become me when the cost grows too high."
Torian stepped closer.
"You'll need me when Skarn falls."
Another version, the exiled, broken one, knelt beside the throne.
"You'll become me when the weight breaks your back."
Torian reached the center.
And sat down.
Not on any throne.
On the floor.
Cross-legged.
He closed his eyes.
"I don't reject you," he said. "I remember you. But I don't follow you."
The silence returned.
Then the flame below shifted.
Not into thrones.
Into a spiral—full, complete, burning steady.
It rose toward him.
And entered his chest.⸻
His eyes opened.
He was still in the shrine—but the mirror flames were gone. The room was quiet. The
walls shimmered not with illusion, but with understanding.
His spiral glowed across his arm, chest, neck—reaching beyond skin, into soul.
He looked at his sword.
It pulsed—not with hunger, but with trust.
Skarn entered then, silently, eyes searching.
Torian met them with a nod.
"It's done," he said. "Not everything. But this part."
Skarn grunted and walked to his side.
Torian looked to the sky, which now shone through a crack in the shrine's roof.
The light wasn't golden.
It was ember red.
Not a warning.
A promise.