The light swallowed them whole.For a moment, there was nothing but a rush of color too vivid for mortal eyes, a cacophony of whispers too layered to be understood. Their bodies stretched like shadows across eternity, then snapped back into form.
When Carlos gasped for air, the world that greeted him was… broken.
They stood upon a plain of floating shards — fragments of land hanging in an endless void. Rivers spilled from broken cliffs into nothingness, their waters suspended midair before vanishing into cracks of white fire. Trees grew upside down on drifting islands, their roots tangled in open sky.
Above them, the heavens were torn like fabric, stitched together by glowing runes that pulsed with the same rhythm as the Helm. Through the rents in the sky, glimpses of other realms flickered — forests, deserts, battlefields — as if a thousand worlds had been shattered and haphazardly sewn into one.
"This…" Lys whispered, lowering her bow as her eyes swept the surreal horizon. "This isn't a realm. It's a graveyard."
"No." Maren's voice trembled. Her hands clenched around her staff, knuckles white. "It's a wound. This is what happens when worlds bleed together. When the Helm forces what should not exist… to exist."
A jagged bridge of stone connected their platform to another, winding toward what looked like the ruins of a citadel suspended upside down, its towers dangling like the teeth of some colossal beast.
Carlos adjusted his grip on the Blade of Ascension. "Then that's where we're going."
Rina gave a short laugh, bitter. "Great. Across a bridge held together by… what? Hope and spite?"
Thalor tested the stone with his boot. It groaned but held. "It will do. Stay close."
They began their crossing.
The path was treacherous. Shards of land floated past them, sometimes colliding with thunderous force, sometimes drifting silently like tombstones. Shadow-creatures skittered along the edges — not solid, not mist, but something between, their bodies flickering in and out of form.
When one lunged, Carlos met it with steel. His blade cut through the thing, but instead of blood, it dissolved into a burst of memories — his own voice screaming in fear during his first days in the Helm. The sound rattled him to his core.
"They're made of us," he realized grimly.
"Not just us," Maren murmured, eyes wide. Another creature screeched past her, its body unraveling into the laughter of a child she had once known. Her face went pale. "They're made of every soul the Helm has touched."
At last they reached the citadel.
Its gates were shattered, doors hanging open like a broken jaw. Inside, gravity had no meaning — staircases twisted sideways, halls bent upward into nothing, and doors opened into voids of spinning stars.
They moved cautiously, fighting the disorientation that gnawed at their senses.
In one hall, they passed murals carved into the very stone — depictions of warriors wearing the Helm across countless ages. Each image showed a victor standing triumphant, but with time, the figures grew less human — eyes hollow, flesh cracked with light, mouths stretched in eternal screams.
"Victors," Thalor muttered darkly. "Or victims."
At the heart of the citadel, they found the throne room.
A massive throne of fractured crystal floated above the floor, chained in place by runes of fire. Upon it sat a figure cloaked in shadows, the Helm itself fused into its head — not worn, but embedded, as though it had grown roots into the skull.
The figure stirred as they entered. Its voice was layered, shifting between male and female, young and old.
"Another Victor comes. Another fool believes they are different."
Carlos raised his blade. "Who are you?"
The figure leaned forward, its face obscured by shadow. But where eyes should be, two golden lights flared.
"I am what awaits you. I am every Victor who could not let go. I am the price of unity. I am the Keeper of Realm Four."
The citadel shuddered. Chains groaned as the throne lowered to the ground, and the Keeper rose to its full height. Its body was a patchwork of forms — one arm armored, another skeletal, legs shifting between human and beast. The Helm pulsed at its core, spreading corruption through every inch of it.
Maren's voice was barely a whisper. "It's what we'll become… if we lose."
The Keeper raised its hand, and the air fractured like glass. A storm of memories and nightmares poured forth, solidifying into weapons aimed at them.
"Prove yourselves," it commanded. "Or be consumed."