---
The seventh realm was unlike any they had visited before.
A haze of golden mist greeted them as they stepped through the gateway Arinthal had conjured. The ground beneath their feet shifted almost immediately—fine, sun-warmed sand, as soft as silk but strangely electric. The air shimmered with heat, and distant dunes rolled like ocean waves under a burning sky. Wind whispered across the expanse, carrying with it voices—some gentle, some screaming, all indistinct.
Aria narrowed her eyes against the glare. "Where… are we?"
"Malhara," Arinthal said, stepping forward with a cautious gaze. "The Realm of Illusions."
Lyrien's brow creased. "Illusions? As in… false images?"
Arinthal nodded slowly. "This realm was once a place of vision and prophecy. But Lord Xandros twisted it. Now, it feeds on memory, perception, fear. Not everything here is what it seems. Trust your instincts more than your eyes."
Aria's hand clenched unconsciously. The mark on her palm pulsed lightly—less pain than warning, a whisper that something about this place was *wrong*. She exchanged a glance with Lyrien, who had grown quieter since their last battle in Volcaryn. His once-playful nature had dulled, the weight of their journey settling heavily on his shoulders. And yet, he was always by her side.
"Let's keep moving," Aria said, adjusting the sword on her back—the one Arinthal had forged from Lyrien's rare dust and her own magic. The blade shimmered faintly even in daylight, a fusion of purpose and power.
They trekked across the sand for what felt like hours. The heat was dry but thick, wrapping around them like invisible chains. Shadows danced at the edge of their vision—sometimes humanoid, sometimes monstrous. Aria tried not to look at them directly.
Then they saw it: a temple half-buried beneath a dune, spiraling spires and domed rooftops sticking out like jagged teeth. The entrance gaped open, dark and inviting.
"The fragment's in there," Arinthal said.
"How can you tell?" Aria asked.
"The mark on your palm," Arinthal replied. "It always glows when we're near a fragment. And it's flickering now—see?"
Aria looked down. The mark in her palm had begun to pulse again, faster than before. Her stomach churned—not with fear, but anticipation.
They entered the temple. The air cooled instantly, sending goosebumps over her arms. Strange glyphs lined the walls—some familiar, others unknown. The corridors twisted like living things, coiling in unnatural directions.
"I don't like this," Lyrien muttered, his hand gripping his blade.
"None of us do," Arinthal said, her voice low. "Stay close."
As they moved deeper, the temple began to *change*. The corridors warped behind them, sealing shut. The glyphs shifted position. And worst of all—so did the air.
They entered a circular chamber with no clear exits. Aria turned to speak, but the words died in her throat.
Lyrien was gone.
"Lyrien?" she spun in a panic.
Arinthal vanished too.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. "No. Not again—"
The chamber twisted. The walls dissolved into a new image—her old bedroom. The one from before all this had begun. Her bed, her posters, the window view of her sleepy village.
She stepped back. "This isn't real."
"You sure about that?" came a voice. Her mother's voice.
Aria whipped around to see a woman who looked exactly like her mother sitting on the bed, smiling gently. The resemblance was perfect. Right down to the tiny scar on her chin from when she'd fallen from the tree swing years ago.
"You've grown so much, Aria," the illusion said. "But you're tired, aren't you? Don't you miss home?"
The mark on her palm seared like fire. Aria flinched.
"You're not real," she hissed, backing away.
"Don't you want to stop running?" the illusion pressed, her voice soft, full of love. "Come back. Rest. You don't have to fight anymore."
Something in her chest trembled. The illusion *felt* real—so achingly real.
But her hand reached for the sword at her back. The one forged by truth and struggle. The one given to her by those who *were* real.
"I already said goodbye to you," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I cried for weeks. But you're *not real*. You're just another trick."
The illusion's eyes changed, turning black. "So be it."
The room collapsed, and Aria was flung backward through a swirling void. When she landed, it was in another memory—but not her own.
She stood in a burnt field. Smoke filled the sky. Soldiers marched past, armor glinting. A boy—Lyrien—stood among the flames, clutching a dagger. His eyes were wide, terrified. A shadowy figure loomed behind him—tall, horned, inhuman.
"No…" Aria whispered. "This isn't my illusion."
But the figure turned—and it was Lord Xandros. Or at least, his essence. A faint projection of his face, lips curled in a grin.
"You should not have come here," he said softly. "This realm belongs to me now. And so will the key."
Aria stepped forward. "I'm not yours to claim."
"Oh, but your soul is already marked. It grows darker with each step you take. Soon, you'll be mine—through fear, through power, or through despair."
Before she could respond, the illusion shattered again.
She landed hard, back in the original chamber. Lyrien and Arinthal were already there—both breathing heavily, eyes haunted.
"You saw it too?" Aria asked.
Lyrien nodded, sweat dripping down his brow. "He showed me things… things I buried a long time ago."
Arinthal placed a steady hand on both of them. "He's trying to break your spirit. That's how he wins."
Just then, a monstrous screech echoed through the chamber. A new figure emerged from the shadows—tall, robed in black, face hidden behind a mirrored mask.
Arinthal's expression hardened. "One of the Ten."
The creature spoke, voice layered with many tones. "You made it far. But this is where the journey ends. The fragment will stay here. With the dead."
Without warning, it attacked.
The battle was chaos.
Illusions sparked with every movement—the creature shifting forms between friend and foe. One moment it was Lyrien. Then Arinthal. Then Aria herself. Each false form whispered things meant to destabilize them, to plant doubt.
But Aria fought through it. Her training in the Void kicked in. Her control over her internal energy—the second stage—allowed her to focus, even as the illusions sliced at her mind.
Lyrien moved like a shadow, shielding her flank. Arinthal conjured runes mid-air, deflecting blows and weakening the enemy's grip on reality.
And then—just as Aria saw an opening—her palm erupted in light.
The mark burned golden. A beam shot from it straight into the creature's chest.
The illusion shattered.
The minion let out a final scream as its mask cracked and its form dissolved into smoke.
In its place, left behind on the temple floor, was a shard of glowing crystal—an Echo fragment.
Aria collapsed to her knees, breathing hard. Lyrien crouched beside her.
"You did it," he said.
She looked at him, her heart thudding. "*We* did it."
Arinthal stepped forward, lifting the fragment. "This one reacted more violently than the others. He's watching us more closely now."
As they left the temple and stepped back into the sunlight, Aria paused.
She held out her palm. The mark was fading back to its usual dim glow, but it was still warm.
"I think he's getting scared," she murmured.
"Good," Lyrien said, offering a small smile. "Let him be."
As they made camp that night under the stars, Aria sat next to Lyrien, both of them silent for a long while.
Finally, she whispered, "Back in the illusion… I saw my mom."
Lyrien glanced over, the firelight catching his eyes. "I saw my brother."
Aria looked down. "It hurt. But it also reminded me why I'm doing this."
He nodded. "Me too."
Their fingers brushed.
Neither of them moved away.
---