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The Sixth Realm, known as **Volcaryn**, was a place spoken of in tremors and prayers. An ashen land of fire-touched skies and sunken ruins, this scorched world was once a kingdom of scholars and sages—until LordXandros unleashed a cataclysm that melted its libraries and buried its people in lava and sorrow.
Now, it was a place where memories burned. The skies swirled with crimson smoke, and the ground cracked beneath every step, whispering old regrets to those who dared to listen.
Aria stepped through the flickering veil that marked their entry into Volcaryn, her boots crunching over cinders. A gust of sulfuric wind hit her, and she coughed, squinting against the orange haze.
"This realm feels… dead," she murmured, brushing soot from her cloak.
Arinthal narrowed her eyes. "Not dead. Wounded."
Beside them, Lyrien was quiet, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his dagger. His usual smirk was absent, replaced with a somber focus.
The trio stood on the edge of a jagged cliff overlooking the basin below. Rivers of magma pulsed like glowing veins, carving molten paths through shattered mountains. A city's skeleton lay in ruins at the center—pillars jutting out like broken ribs, the bones of a civilization turned to ash.
Somewhere in that ruin was another **fragment of the Echoes**.
Aria glanced at her palm. The mark had darkened, faintly glowing. It itched—a bad sign.
"We don't have long," she said.
They descended the crumbling path, Arinthal using her staff to stabilize the rocks. Every footstep stirred up embers. The heat made it difficult to breathe, and the sweat on Aria's back soaked through her tunic.
As they crossed a narrow bridge of obsidian, Aria found herself walking beside Lyrien. He didn't speak, but she noticed how his eyes flicked to her every few minutes—checking. Always checking.
"You okay?" she asked him quietly.
He hesitated, then nodded. "This place reminds me of a battlefield I once crossed. No survivors there, either."
His tone was flat, but his knuckles were white against the grip of his dagger.
Aria wanted to say something comforting, but no words came. So instead, she reached out and brushed her fingers against his, briefly. He looked at her. Not startled. Just… present.
And for that moment, it was enough.
---
The ruins of the city were half-submerged in lava. They moved cautiously, skipping from stone to stone, entering what used to be the heart of an ancient university. Charred books floated like ghosts in thick air. Glass domes had melted into spirals, and statues wept obsidian tears.
It was in the main hall—an enormous chamber with melted arches and a central dais—that they found it.
The **fragment**.
It hovered above the dais, a flickering shard of translucent light, barely visible through the heat waves. It pulsed slowly, like a dying star. But even from a distance, Aria could feel it—drawing her mark to the surface. Her palm throbbed, veins glowing gold beneath the skin.
She took a step forward.
That's when the whispering began.
It was soft, like dry paper crumbling in the wind. At first Aria thought it was the wind itself—until the voices grew louder.
"Aria…"
Her name. Spoken by a thousand mouths.
"Aria…"
The room darkened.
Shadows crawled from the walls. Slender figures with too-long limbs and empty eyes. Their bodies were made of soot and memory. Faces stretched in silent screams. Hands clawing for warmth. For life.
"They're not alive," Arinthal warned, voice low. "They are the remnants of those who perished when the realm fell. Spirits, broken by fire and grief."
"They're protecting it," Lyrien muttered. "The fragment."
Aria's hand burned.
"I have to get to it," she said.
"No!" Arinthal reached for her shoulder. "They'll tear you apart if you charge in without—"
But Aria was already moving.
---
The shadows lunged.
A wall of whispering agony surged toward her. Arinthal threw up a barrier of wind, sending the first wave scattering like ashes, but more came. Dozens. Hundreds.
Aria dodged, rolled, slid under a fallen arch and sprinted toward the dais. Every breath scorched her lungs. Her mark blazed with light now—blinding gold crackling from her fingers.
One of the shadows reached her. It wrapped around her leg, pulling with dead strength. She screamed, kicked, and blasted it with a pulse of raw energy from her palm.
The mark flared—sending out a shockwave.
The spirits recoiled. But only for a second.
She reached the dais, heart thundering, and stretched out her hand toward the fragment.
And froze.
It hovered inches from her fingers… but her mind began to twist.
Memories that weren't hers flashed across her vision—death, fire, screams. A child burning in their mother's arms. A man clawing at his own face. A library of wisdom reduced to sparks. The grief of a thousand souls poured into her like molten lead.
Her knees buckled.
Lyrien was suddenly there, catching her.
"Aria!" he shouted over the roar of ghostly voices.
"I can't—" Her voice cracked. "It's too much."
"You're not alone."
He gripped her wrist, his presence grounding her. The visions slowed. Her breath returned.
Arinthal joined them, staff blazing with blue fire. She drew a sigil in the air, a circle of protection that gave them enough space to breathe.
"You need to take it, Aria," she said. "Only your mark can absorb it."
"I can't…"
"You can."
Aria looked at Lyrien. He nodded, eyes steady.
She turned, hand trembling, and touched the fragment.
The room exploded with light.
---
Later, she wouldn't remember how she screamed. Or how the spirits screamed with her. The pain was unbearable—like being flayed by fire and sadness.
But she held on.
And when the light finally died, and silence fell, she collapsed in Lyrien's arms, the fragment absorbed into the mark in her palm.
It now glowed with two stars.
Another piece of eternity claimed.
But not without cost.
The spirits had vanished. Gone with the fragment. Their final wish granted: remembrance.
---
They left the ruined city by moonlight. No words were spoken for a long time. Only the crackle of cooling lava and distant thunder filled the silence.
As they reached the edge of Volcaryn, the portal shimmered ahead.
"Are you alright?" Lyrien asked softly.
Aria nodded, though her eyes were red. "They didn't want to hurt us. They were just… lost."
"And now?"
"They're free."
She paused, looking at her palm. The mark pulsed with calm gold now, like a heartbeat.
"They're part of me."
Lyrien didn't respond. But he walked beside her, silent and steady.
Behind them, Arinthal watched. Her expression unreadable. But her thoughts were already moving forward.
To the next realm.
To the next battle.
And somewhere beyond, far across the planes of reality…
Lord Xandros opened his eyes.
---
From a blackened throne carved from the bones of time, he had watched the battle unfold in a mirror of smoke.
His mouth twisted in a smile.
"She grows stronger."
His voice echoed like cracking stone.
"And yet… she still does not see."
He turned toward the dark figure kneeling at the foot of the dais.
"Send the *Whispered Blade* to the Seventh Realm. Let's see if her soul can bleed."
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