"What are you doing?"
"You only have three."
"Three what?"
"Three left."
"That's not enough."
"You never had enough."
Kalem's hands twitched over his belt, over the cracked vials and the half-scorched scroll tube that somehow clung to his hip like a stubborn parasite. The fire sword glowed faintly beside him, sheathed in a jagged groove he'd carved into the stone to prevent it from rolling away.
He exhaled slowly. His breath steamed, not from cold—but from density. The mana here still pressed on him like the weight of the ocean. Thinner than when he first woke, but only just. He could breathe without coughing up blood now. A miracle, in this place.
"Shut up," Kalem muttered. "I need to think."
"Rude."
"Arrogant."
"Understandable."
Kalem blinked. The cadence was different. Less mocking. Still dissonant, still alien—but… measured.
"A polite one this time?" Kalem asked, turning his gaze slightly to the left—toward nothing in particular.
"Politeness is survival."
"Not for you."
"But for us."
"I'm not sure whether that's comforting or terrifying."
He sat back against the sealed gate, its stone still humming with invisible frequency. His body ached with every motion. Cuts along his shoulder and ribs from the last ambush had stopped bleeding, but they throbbed under his charred skin. The remains of his armor were just that—remains. Scrap metal and scorched fabric barely held together by soot and defiance.
The crate was gone. His rations—what little moss and fungus he'd been cultivating—gone too.
But he still had three.
Three mana charges left.
Kalem's hand hovered over the runes carved into his wrist guard. old, refined. He'd made them himself, during the siege at Hollowcrest. The array stored raw mana—three reservoirs, each meant to give him a burst of life when all else failed.
One to burn. One to run. One to survive.
Three left.
He traced the edges with his fingers. They pulsed weakly in answer, like they knew their time was coming.
"You know what these mean?" Kalem said aloud.
Silence. For a moment, he thought they'd finally quieted.
Then—
"A gift to yourself."
"A borrowed hour."
"A lie you needed."
"Closer than usual," Kalem muttered. "Still wrong."
He stared at the wall opposite the gate. There was nothing remarkable about it. Just jagged rock and old bloodstains. But it helped to look at something. Something real.
The stillness was worse than the whispers. No movement. No creatures. Just the sound of his own heartbeat and that damned hum behind the stone.
He tapped his fingers against the fire sword's hilt, letting the rhythm guide his thoughts.
He needed to ration what little he had left—food, mana, strength, clarity. Everything came in fragments now. Nothing was whole. Even his thoughts wandered too easily into memories—dangerous ones.
He shook his head.
"You said three," Kalem repeated. "Three left. But you didn't say what."
"Choices."
"Breaths."
"Lies."
"Lives."
That last one hit too close. His jaw clenched.
"One was Onyx," he whispered.
"Yes."
The fact that they answered… It nearly made him snap. He gritted his teeth and looked down at his hands—trembling, cracked, burned. Still here. Still functioning.
He took a slow breath.
"Second… was me. Falling. When I survived."
"You think survival is life?"
"Don't start," Kalem snapped. "Not now."
"Then yes."
He hated when they agreed. He hated it more when it felt honest.
That left the third. And he didn't have it yet. That was the problem. Whatever the third "life" would be—it hadn't come.
Or worse—it was waiting for him behind the gate.
He turned and looked at the sealed door again. It wasn't just stone. It was something older. Etched with lines that resembled language and yet shifted like breath. He couldn't read it, not truly—but he could feel it.
Not locked. Not yet open. Waiting.
Kalem pressed his palm against it again. A faint tremor ran through his bones—not the ground. Not motion.
It was inside him.
"One more layer down."
"There's always one more."
"We remember climbing."
"What is behind here?" Kalem asked. "What am I supposed to find?"
The voices didn't answer directly. They never did. But this time, a single phrase echoed louder than the rest:
"What you lost. What you carry. What you'll leave behind."
He pulled his hand back, suddenly cold despite the fire around his core. That wasn't an answer. That was a threat.
Still…
Kalem slowly rose to his feet, swaying slightly. The ache in his side was sharper than it had been before. His body was degrading. Starvation. Infection. Time.
But his eyes burned.
"I have three," he said quietly. "And one is enough for what comes next."
He didn't need to say it out loud, but part of him hoped the voices heard it. Understood it.
He'd burn one.
Run with one.
And survive with the last.
"Three is not enough."
"It never was."
"And yet."
Kalem took his fire sword from the ground and slung it across his back. His hands bled a little from the pressure. He didn't care.
He turned away from the gate.
Not ready yet.
Not yet.
First, he had to think.
Had to prepare.
Had to choose.