The spire was closer now—its alien shape rising from the dunes like a bone piercing the sky. It was smooth, obsidian-black, with no visible entrance or window, no crack or seam. As they approached, the temperature dropped sharply. Even the desert heat seemed afraid of the thing.
Ael stopped at the base, placing a hand against its surface. It was cold—colder than anything he had touched in this world. His fingers recoiled, but the spire pulsed once, as if recognizing him.
Then it began to open.
A single line of violet light spread from beneath his palm, crawling upward like a vein. The spire shuddered with a low hum, and a doorway formed—perfectly round, perfectly silent.
Behind him, Arienne gripped her sword tighter. "That's Voidcraft. Ancient."
"Older than the gods," Elric muttered, squinting up at the monolith. "And it's opening for you."
Ael didn't respond. He stepped inside.
The others followed.
The interior of the spire was unlike anything they had ever seen. There were no torches, no fixtures, no bricks—only an endless spiral of dark stone and floating platforms, suspended in violet mist. Gravity seemed distorted. The air was weightless, soundless.
"I can't feel my own footsteps," Lyra whispered.
"That's because this place isn't bound by physical law," Elric said. "Time might not even move here."
"So what, we're ghosts walking through someone else's dream?" Lyra muttered.
Ael turned. "No. We're intruders walking through something the gods buried."
They climbed the floating path, each step taking them higher toward a glowing core at the heart of the spire. As they ascended, memories not their own began to flicker in their minds.
Visions.
Flashes.
Men in ancient robes, chanting around a screaming seal. A broken star crashing into the earth. Cities swallowed by shadows. And a man—faceless, robed in white—standing atop a tower as the world crumbled below him.
Ael paused, breath catching.
That man... he had seen him before. In dreams. In fragments of memory that weren't his.
He heard a whisper in his head.
"You are his echo."
The voice wasn't human. It was layered—male and female, ancient and newborn, harmonious and shattered. It passed through his mind like wind through dry leaves.
Arienne noticed his stillness. "What did you see?"
"Nothing," he lied.
He wasn't ready to say it aloud.
Not yet.
At last, they reached the heart of the spire.
The room was circular, vast, with a floating platform at its center. Suspended in the air above it was a crystal the size of a man—cracked and glowing with dim violet light. Beneath it, a seal etched into the floor shimmered faintly.
But they were not alone.
A figure stood before the crystal—tall, armored in flesh-like metal, with chains coiled around its limbs. Its face was covered by a blank white mask, and from its back protruded skeletal wings made of light.
It turned.
And the air grew still.
"A Herald," Elric breathed. "Of the Executioner."
The being spoke without moving.
"You have come far, little revenant. But this seal is not yours to claim."
The voice echoed through the room like the grinding of distant tombs.
Ael stepped forward. "I am not here to claim. I'm here to seal it again."
"You are a mistake," the Herald said. "A fragment resurrected by stolen magic. Your existence is the heresy."
The chains around its arms rattled, and a sword of shadow formed in its hand.
Ael drew his own weapon.
"Then let heretics clash."
The Herald moved with inhuman speed, striking with a downward arc that cracked the platform. Ael parried just in time, sparks flying as mana and void clashed violently. Behind him, the others scattered.
"Don't let the seal get damaged!" Arienne called.
Lyra leapt onto a higher ledge, hurling knives of enchanted steel, but the Herald batted them aside like insects. Elric began chanting, summoning a barrier of light that wrapped around the crystal.
"I can hold the seal for a few minutes—no more!"
Ael traded blows with the Herald, his body pushed to the limit. Each strike sent shockwaves through the chamber. The Herald didn't tire. It didn't flinch. But Ael had something it didn't.
Emotion.
With every blow, he remembered the faces he had come to care about. Arienne, calm and fierce. Elric, arrogant but loyal. Lyra, wild and sharp.
And more than that—
He remembered feeling.
Ael roared, his mana flaring bright white. His sword struck the Herald's mask, cracking it.
The being recoiled.
"You—feel—too much," it hissed.
"That's why you'll lose," Ael whispered.
He plunged his blade through its chest, and with a scream like tearing worlds, the Herald exploded into smoke.
Silence.
The seal pulsed once.
Then dimmed.
Elric staggered forward. "We… we did it."
"No," Ael said quietly. "We've only begun."
Because the Herald had whispered one last thing before dying.
"The Executioner is awake."