When the light faded, the chamber was no longer whole.
Walls lay in jagged heaps, the torchlight swallowed by the eerie, pale glow that bled from the broken monolith.
Rondan staggered to his feet, vision still seared white.
Through the haze, the silhouette solidified—slender at first, almost human… until it moved.
Its limbs were too long.
Its skin shimmered like liquid silver, and where a face should have been, there was only a mask of shifting runes.
Each rune burned into Rondan's memory; he'd seen them before—on his opponent's arm, in the arena, etched into the hidden corridors beneath the stands.
The creature spoke, but its voice wasn't sound—it was the echo of a thought, forced into his mind.
"You have unbound me."
Rondan's grip on his sword faltered. "What are you?"
"A key… and a curse. They made me to open the gates beyond this world. But I will not be used again."
The masked leader, blood trickling down his temple, dragged himself upright. His voice cracked with rage.
"Fool! You've doomed us all!"
The beast—wounded but still alive—let out a bone-deep roar, but the silver figure turned its gaze toward it.
One step. That was all it took. The monster froze, shuddered… and collapsed, lifeless, as if its soul had been erased.
Rondan's instincts screamed at him to run, but his legs wouldn't move. The silver figure's mask shifted again, forming a new rune—one he didn't recognize.
"Meet me where the dead rivers flow. Only there will you learn why you still breathe."
Before he could speak, the figure dissolved into shards of light that scattered like falling stars, vanishing into the cracks of the ruined chamber.
Silence fell.
The masked leader's glare burned through him.
"If you follow it… there will be no coming back."
Rondan didn't answer. Deep inside, he already knew—he'd follow.