The spiral descent was narrow, the air stale and cold with ancient breath. Each step they took echoed as if the mountain itself remembered every footfall. Faint crimson veins pulsed beneath the black stone walls—echoes of forgotten sorcery.
Kael led the way, Ashrend's glow casting bloodlight ahead. The others followed in silence.
"This place…" Lyra whispered. "It wasn't meant to be found."
"No," Kael answered. "It was meant to be sealed. Which means someone feared what it could reveal."
The stairs ended at a chamber door—tall, circular, forged from a single slab of obsidian engraved with spiraling runes. At its center: a mark.
The Sovereign sigil, cracked and scorched.
Kael pressed his palm to it. The mark on his chest flared, pulsing in rhythm.
The door groaned open.
They stepped into a cathedral of shadows.
Rows of stone sarcophagi, each marked with names lost to history. Floating above them were fragmented visions—ghostly projections of battles, kings, ancient mages… and Sovereigns.
At the center of the chamber was a throne.
Empty. Cracked.
And in front of it, a blade embedded in the floor.
Not Ashrend.
But its twin.
The weapon was jagged, darker, humming with a malevolent crimson. Veins of black lightning flickered along its surface. Words were carved along the floor around it in broken Velarynic:
"Here lies the Betrayer's Flame. Bound by oath. Buried by blood."
Darric exhaled. "That's… not comforting."
Kael knelt before the blade.
"This belonged to the first Sovereign."
Lyra stepped beside him. "You knew?"
"I remembered… pieces. My dreams. My scars. My brand."
He gripped the sword's hilt.
For a moment, nothing moved.
Then—a pulse.
The chamber screamed with magic as the sword responded to Kael's touch. Red lightning arced around the room. The ghostly images began to flicker—more vivid, violent. Scenes of betrayal, kingdoms burned, and one man standing atop them all.
Kael.
Or someone who looked like him.
"What… are we seeing?" Lyra asked, stunned.
"The truth," Kaelen's voice echoed from nowhere. "Or a version of it."
Kael pulled the blade free.
It ignited with a scream.
The blade howled like a vengeful spirit. Black lightning danced from its edge, consuming the throne behind it.
Kael stood tall, both Ashrend and the new blade at his sides.
"Its name," he said softly, "is Duskrend."
Darric swallowed. "You're wielding two relics now. That's… excessive."
Lyra glanced at Kael, unsure whether to fear or trust him more.
But Kael's voice was clear. Focused. Calm.
"Ashrend remembers justice. Duskrend remembers wrath."
"And you?" Lyra asked.
Kael turned toward the exit, crimson lightning rippling behind him.
"I remember who I need to become."