The path to Xandros's stronghold was no longer a road—it was a reckoning.
Aria walked through the charred valley of the RivenFlats, her boots crunching against brittle ash. The land bore the weight of centuries of forgotten wars, its silence broken only by the distant cries of wind and the whisper of memory. Every step forward felt heavier than the last. The fragments hummed inside the pouch pressed against her chest, the mark on her palm glowing faintly in rhythm with her heartbeat.
Behind her, Lyrien kept pace, his cloak torn at the edges, his face hardened from the battle in Thalara's Hollow. His sword, once pristine, was now etched with scuffs and dried blood—proof of the trials they had survived. Arinthal followed them both, silent but present. Her eyes, once bright with arcane knowledge, now flickered with worry, as though she felt time running thin.
The sky above Nihrelion's border cracked like old paint, revealing glimpses of a deeper storm beyond the veil of this world. It was as if the realm itself knew what was coming.
"We should rest soon," Arinthal finally said, her voice almost hesitant. "We push too hard, and we won't reach him with our minds intact."
Aria paused but didn't turn around. "Do you feel it too? The pull? It's like he's calling me."
"That's not a call," Arinthal said grimly. "It's a trap."
Lyrien put a gentle hand on Aria's shoulder. "She's right. We rest. Just for a few hours."
---
They camped in a ruined temple half-sunken into the earth, its pillars cracked and leaning as though the building were bowing in exhaustion. The walls were covered in faded murals—depictions of heroes who had tried and failed to challenge the darkness long ago. One figure in particular stood out: a woman with a burning hand, standing alone before a beast made of shadows.
"Is that..." Aria whispered.
"An echo of you," Arinthal said softly. "Or what you might become."
They sat in silence, a small fire crackling between them. Lyrien unsheathed his sword and began cleaning it methodically.
"Do you think he'll be there?" Aria asked. "Waiting?"
"He's always been there," Lyrien replied. "Just not always in the way we expect."
Arinthal leaned forward, stirring the fire. "The question isn't whether he'll be waiting. The question is whether we'll be ready."
---
Sleep came fitfully.
Aria dreamt of her mother's voice calling her from a mirror lake. Of Lyrien standing with his back to her, blood dripping from his hand. Of Arinthal vanishing into flame. And of Xandros, sitting on a throne of bone and light, smiling like he already knew how everything would end.
She awoke before dawn, sweat clinging to her neck. She touched the mark on her palm. It pulsed.
Quietly, she stepped away from the camp, walking toward a hill where the wind stirred the grass in long, whispering waves. Lyrien found her minutes later.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked.
"I saw you," she said. "In my dream. You were bleeding."
He looked away, then back. "You always dream about what you fear. Doesn't mean it will come to pass."
"But what if it does? What if I can't stop him? What if I lose both of you?" Her voice cracked.
Lyrien stepped closer, his face earnest. "Then we lose together. But you won't lose us, Aria. You never truly had to carry this alone."
She hesitated, then leaned into him, just for a second. Just enough to remember she could still breathe.
---
By midday, they had resumed their march.
The final threshold rose ahead like a monument of dread—a gate carved from obsidian and bone, taller than mountains and humming with suppressed power. Runes glowed across its surface, each one thrumming with the fragments inside Aria's pouch.
As they neared, the gate began to open, soundlessly splitting apart to reveal a dark corridor lined with flickering lights. On either side, statues stood of faceless warriors, each one carved with haunting precision, as if they had once been alive and turned to stone.
"Welcome to the Crucible," Arinthal whispered.
They stepped through.
---
The corridor led to a circular chamber, the walls of which were lined with mirrors. In the center, a raised platform stood with a swirling vortex above it—a gateway to Xandros's domain.
But before they could move forward, the air twisted, and a figure stepped from one of the mirrors.
It was Aria.
Or rather, another version of her.
This Aria wore armor made of silver flame. Her eyes were hollow. Her mark glowed with a sickly red hue.
"I am what you could become," she said. "If you let hatred lead you. If you let him win."
Aria stepped forward, fists clenched. "You're just another trick. Another manipulation."
"No," the other Aria said. "I'm truth. A truth you must confront."
The duel was swift and brutal. The mirrored Aria fought with rage, striking with precision, every blow aimed to kill.
But Aria fought with purpose. With love. With the weight of all she had carried.
In the end, she disarmed her shadow and drove her hand forward, the mark on her palm blazing white. The mirror shattered. The figure vanished.
Lyrien caught her as she stumbled.
"You okay?"
"I don't know," she said honestly.
---
They stepped onto the platform.
The vortex pulsed, reading her mark.
The final realm opened.
Xandros was waiting.
And the war for everything would soon begin.
---