The moment the vortex consumed them, time fractured.
Aria felt her body disassemble into threads of thought, memory, and fear. She saw the faces of those she'd lost, snippets of laughter, and the thousand moments that had led her here. Then, like gravity pulling the pieces back together, she landed.
Hard.
The realm was nothing like any they had crossed. The sky hung heavy like a bruise, swirling with stormclouds that roared without thunder. The ground beneath them was cracked obsidian, steaming in places with veins of glowing fire pulsing like a heartbeat. The air reeked of ozone and sorrow.
They were standing on a narrow bridge that stretched over an endless chasm, suspended by nothing. Ahead, at the bridge's far end, was the FortressofEchoes—LordXandros' stronghold.
It rose like a desecrated cathedral, its towers coiled with smoke, windows glowing with an unholy light. There were no guards. No monsters. Just silence. A quiet too complete to trust.
Arinthal was the first to speak. "This is the realm of Nexus. The final veil. Here, all truths are unmade."
Lyrien looked up at the fortress, jaw set. "He's waiting. Not hiding. Not fighting. Waiting."
Aria didn't speak. She couldn't.
The mark on her palm flared so brightly it hurt. The fragments within her pouch pulsed in response. Her body ached with their power. Her chest throbbed with every heartbeat, as if her blood itself was rejecting her.
She remembered Xandros' words in Nihrelion:
*"The more you use it, the more I know you."*
*"I've already won."*
It wasn't just fear now. It was corrosion. Doubt sinking its claws deep inside her.
"Let's go," she said, her voice thin.
They walked.
---
Halfway across the bridge, the first trial met them.
A figure formed from smoke and shadow stepped forward. It wore the face of Aria's father.
Not the man who had raised her after the fire. The one before. Her true father. The man who had died defending Tenria.
His face was gentle. But the blade in his hand was real.
"You don't belong here, Aria," he said. "You were never meant to carry this burden. Give it to someone stronger."
Lyrien stepped forward, but Aria raised a hand to stop him. Her eyes were wide. She trembled.
"You died... trying to protect me. How are you—?"
"I'm what remains of him inside you," the shade said. "I never wanted this for you. Walk away. Lay down the fragments. End this madness."
Aria's knees buckled, but she stayed upright.
"I wanted to," she whispered. "So many times. But people are dead because of Xandros. People I love. And I'm not going to run from that."
She drew a small blade and slashed the shadow across its chest. It dispersed like smoke on the wind.
She kept walking.
---
Next, it was Lyrien's trial.
From the mist came a boy—no older than fifteen. His brother. The one he had failed to save.
"You left me," the boy said, blood dripping from a wound in his neck. "You let them take me."
Lyrien stopped in his tracks. His hands shook.
"I didn't know," he breathed. "I didn't know they would target you."
"But they did. And you lived. You always live."
Aria reached for him, but he didn't move. Instead, he lowered his weapon, walked to the ghost, and knelt.
"I carry you with me every day. And maybe I always will. But that doesn't mean I give up."
The shade smiled, and dissolved.
They walked on.
---
Arinthal's trial was quieter.
An older version of herself appeared, her body withered, eyes hollow, magic flickering out like a dying star.
"You will live long enough to watch them all die," her future self said. "And then you will forget why you ever cared."
"Then let me live with that," Arinthal answered.
And the shade vanished.
---
When they finally reached the doors of the fortress, the wind changed. Cold. Sharp. Tasting of metal and despair.
The doors opened before they touched them.
They stepped inside.
---
The Fortress of Echoes was a monument to contradiction. Gothic arches wrapped in pulsing wires of energy. Statues of angels with their wings severed. Mirrors that reflected not faces, but memories.
And at the center, on a throne made from fragments of broken realms, sat Xandros.
He was beautiful.
Terrible.
Eyes like twin novas. Skin etched with runes older than stars. His body wasn't entirely solid—parts of it shimmered, flickered, like he existed in several realities at once.
"I wondered how far you would come," he said softly.
Aria stepped forward.
"This ends now."
Xandros laughed. Not cruelly. Almost sadly.
"You still think this was about ending me. You poor child. You don't end what you *are*."
He stood. Reality bent around him.
"You are the vessel. I am the echo. What do you think happens when the echo finds its source?"
Aria raised the fragments, but they shook violently in her hand.
"What—?"
Xandros raised a hand. The mark on her palm exploded in pain. She dropped to her knees.
Lyrien and Arinthal rushed forward, weapons drawn, but Xandros didn't move.
"Don't you see? I didn't plant that mark to bind you. I planted it... to *grow* you. You are not my destroyer, Aria."
He smiled.
"You are my heir."
Aria screamed.
Not from pain. But from fury. From betrayal. From fear.
"You're lying!"
Xandros descended the steps.
"Why do you think the fragments answered only to you? Why do you think the realms bent to your will? You carry my blood. My memory. I am the seed. You are the bloom."
Lyrien threw his blade, but it stopped inches from Xandros' chest and melted.
Arinthal shouted an incantation, but her spell fizzled.
"Your magic is finite," Xandros said. "Mine is the foundation."
He reached for Aria.
She tried to stand. Her limbs failed.
The mark on her palm shifted—opening like an eye. Light poured out, and she saw.
Flashes.
Xandros standing over a cradle.
A child born from fire.
A mother who hid her daughter. Who gave her to a world that might never understand her.
"No..."
Aria clutched her head. The memories weren't his. They were hers.
"You wanted to save the world," Xandros whispered. "But you were never meant to be its savior. You were meant to be its new god."
He offered his hand.
Aria looked at Lyrien.
At Arinthal.
At her friends. Her family. Her *life*.
And she made her choice.
She stood.
"I am not your heir."
And she took the pain, the power, the mark—and turned it inward.
The fragments flared.
The Fortress shook.
Xandros screamed.
Light consumed them all.
---