The path beyond the storm-gate was quiet—too quiet.
Kaelen's boots crunched over a smooth obsidian bridge, suspended in nothingness. No wind. No sky. Just stars, scattered like dying embers beneath his feet.
With every step, the weight of the Midnight Blade grew heavier.
Not physically.
Spiritually.
As if the steel itself remembered the truths the Herald spoke: that the Veiled were not just invaders—they were victims. That his bloodline was not simply noble—it was stained.
A voice echoed from the void.
"You've passed the trials of garden and storm. But there is one more oath to swear before you may wield what is yours."
Kaelen slowed.
At the bridge's end stood an altar. And before it, a man cloaked in robes the color of drying blood.
His face was shadowed, but Kaelen knew him.
"You," Kaelen whispered. "You were at the castle… when I was a child."
The man bowed his head slightly. "I was everywhere. I am everywhere. I am the Keeper of the Pact."
"What pact?"
The Keeper extended a hand. "The pact your ancestors made to bind the first flame. To keep the Veiled at bay. To lock away the truth. A pact sealed in blood… and in sacrifice."
Kaelen approached warily, the Midnight Blade humming at his side. "Why do I have to seal it?"
"Because you are the last who can. If you do not, the wards will fall. The Veiled will rise. And the world will burn."
Kaelen looked down at the altar. It pulsed with heat, runes flaring red-gold beneath a basin carved from dragonbone. Inside was a scroll, bound in shadow-silk, its threads twitching like veins.
The Keeper's eyes gleamed. "Sign it with your blood. Swear loyalty to the flame. Bind your soul to the blade. And you shall wield its full power."
Kaelen stood still.
"What happens if I refuse?"
The Keeper's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Then the shadows consume what remains of your house. Your friends. The girl you love."
A flicker of Elira's face passed through Kaelen's mind—sharp, steady, defiant.
He looked to the blade.
Then to the basin.
"I'll sign," he said, reaching for the scroll. "But not to bind myself to your past. I sign to break it."
He pricked his thumb with the blade, and his blood fell into the basin. The scroll absorbed it hungrily—runes leaping to life, circling Kaelen's wrist like molten chains.
"The pact is sealed," the Keeper whispered, almost reverent.
But Kaelen didn't bow.
The chains around his wrist faded—but a new mark remained: the sigil of the First Flame, branded into his skin.
"I'm not your puppet," Kaelen said. "I'm the one who ends this."
The void trembled.
A distant horn blew—raw and cold. Not from the bridge, but from the world above.
War had begun.
The Keeper faded into smoke.
Kaelen turned, heart pounding, the Midnight Blade now glowing with the fire of ancient promise. Somewhere above, the Veiled stirred. The kingdoms mobilized. And Elira...
...Elira was missing.