The land began to die the farther they marched.
What had once been a forest—blackrooted, sharp with thorns and pale leaves—had thinned into husks. Trees twisted into gnarled silhouettes, bark flaked away like old scabs, and the sky turned a permanent shade of bruised gray. Even the wind refused to speak here.
Kael led, cloak dragging through the dust. His steps were steady, his blade strapped across his back, his mark pulsing faintly beneath his collarbone. The rhythm of his heartbeat had started to sync with something else. Something ancient. It wasn't just the relic anymore—it was the land itself. Or what was left of it.
Behind him, Lyra checked the ridge. Her blades remained drawn, not for enemies they could see—but for the ones they couldn't. There were whispers now. Faint. Like insects crawling just under the skin.
Darric swore softly under his breath as his boot snagged on something buried in the dirt. He knelt, brushed the ash aside, and froze.
A statue lay half-submerged—a knight in shattered armor, face lost to erosion. But the emblem still clung to the breastplate: a crimson sun split by a black lance.
Darric stood quickly. "Another one."
Kael didn't stop walking. "The old guard. They were here too."
Lyra frowned. "This deep into cursed territory? Why?"
Kael turned back to face them, voice calm.
"Because they were looking for the same thing we are."
They continued onward. As the sun dipped behind the skeletal ridges, the temperature dropped, and the silence became heavier. Not the silence of peace—but of things waiting.
By dusk, the ruined temple came into view.
It jutted from the earth like broken teeth—partially sunken, ringed by crumbled columns and iron-rooted trees. Strange markings ran across the stonework, pulsing faintly with red and violet light. A forgotten language. A ward against something ancient.
Kael stopped at the entrance. His hand brushed the stone, and the mark on his chest burned in response. The temple recognized him.
He took a breath.
And stepped inside.
The air was thick with memory.
Pillars loomed overhead like petrified giants. The walls bore murals long defaced—kings without faces, stars bleeding, and a sword descending from the heavens. At the far end, a stairwell dropped into blackness.
Kael descended without hesitation.
The chamber below was circular, lined with chains that reached into the darkness above. At its center sat a pedestal—and atop it, a strange object: a sphere of black glass, veins of crimson webbing across its surface. The second beacon.
Kael approached.
The second his fingers brushed the glass, the room screamed.
Visions slammed into him. Fire. Screams. A battlefield bathed in red lightning. And a voice—his own, older, roaring a name he did not recognize.
He dropped to one knee, clutching his head. His mark seared like it was being carved anew.
Above, Lyra and Darric shouted. The walls trembled.
Shadows bled from the stone.
Something else had been waiting.
A figure rose from the chains. Tall. Inhuman. Its body made of plates of onyx and flickering mirrors. No eyes. No mouth. Only a jagged helm, and a great blade shaped like a broken hourglass.
The Mirrorbound had awakened.
Kael stood slowly, fire crackling around his hands.
"I remember you now," he said quietly. "You were there. The day the flames fell."
The creature raised its blade.
Kael drew Ashrend.
And the chamber erupted into war.