The sand beneath their boots was colder than death, each grain clinging like ash. The fortress loomed above them, its twisted towers bending as though straining against chains that only the sky could hold. Lightning flared in the storm overhead, illuminating the cliff faces carved with screaming visages — mouths open wide in eternal agony.
No wind stirred. No birds cried. The silence was so complete that the beating of their hearts seemed like drums of war.
Carlos gripped the Blade of Ascension tighter. Every step toward the fortress felt heavier than the last, as though unseen hands sought to drag him into the black sea behind.
When they reached the gate, the stone doors groaned open of their own accord.
Inside, darkness waited. Not the simple absence of light — but a darkness alive, pressing against their eyes, whispering at the edges of their thoughts.
"Stay close," Thalor ordered, his shield raised. His voice echoed too loudly in the hollow air.
They stepped into the abyss.
The great hall stretched wider than the eye could follow. Columns rose like skeletal spines, their surfaces slick with runes that pulsed faintly, bleeding light into the shadows. The floor was a mirror of black glass, reflecting them imperfectly — warped, twisted, fractured.
As they walked, their reflections began to move independently.
Carlos froze. His reflection turned its head, sneering back at him with eyes of molten gold.
"You think you lead them," it spat, though its lips never moved. "But you're still the boy begging for love. You wear the sword like armor, but you're still afraid you're worthless."
The Blade trembled in Carlos's hand. He clenched his jaw, forcing his feet forward. "Ignore it," he growled. "It's not real."
Lys's reflection peeled away from the glass next, stepping fully onto the floor with bow drawn. Its eyes were hollow, its mouth dripping with blood.
"You let them die," it hissed. "Your people, your kin. You swore an oath, and you failed them all. What gives you the right to fight for anyone now?"
Lys's breath caught. She raised her bow out of instinct, arrow trembling, aimed not at the monster but at herself.
Carlos's hand caught her arm. "Lys. Don't."
Her eyes brimmed with rage and grief, but she lowered the bow. Barely.
Rina's laughter shattered the silence. Except it wasn't her.
Her reflection leaned lazily against a column, twirling daggers. Its grin was cruel, venomous.
"Family? Friends? How many have you betrayed, Rina? You think they'll trust you when they learn the truth? When they see the knives you've planted in backs before?"
Rina stiffened. Her hands twitched toward her daggers, but she didn't draw them. Her lips curled, but the smirk was gone — replaced by something brittle.
"Shut up," she whispered, though her voice cracked.
Thalor's reflection stepped forward next. Its armor gleamed as if freshly polished, unbroken, unmarred by failure.
"You preach honor," it sneered. "But you let your brothers fall. You survived when better men died. You are not a knight. You are a coward in steel."
Thalor slammed his shield into the ground, the sound reverberating through the hall. "No," he growled. "I am the one who lived. And I carry their memory with me."
But his voice shook.
Maren's reflection was last.
It did not step forward. It towered. Her shadow stretched across the walls, her staff blazing with uncontrolled stormfire. Its eyes burned like suns, its mouth twisted with a smile that wasn't hers.
"You think you've mastered me," it thundered, voice shaking the pillars. "But you've only delayed the inevitable. You are destruction. And when they need you most, you will burn them all."
Maren staggered backward, her staff clattering to the floor. She pressed her hands to her ears, shaking her head violently. "No! No, I'm not—"
Carlos caught her before she fell. "Yes, you are," he said fiercely, gripping her shoulders. "You're destruction and creation. You're more than this voice. You're Maren."
Her breath hitched. Tears streaked her face. But she met his gaze, and slowly, she nodded.
The fortress trembled, the reflections merging into a single monstrous figure — a hydra-like shadow, five heads sprouting from one writhing body, each face the reflection of their deepest fear.
The Helm's voice reverberated through the chamber:
"Truths forgotten cannot be denied. To move forward, you must face not only what you fear — but what you are."
The creature roared, charging.
The battle for Realm Three had begun.