The desert welcomed them back like a furnace.
As the Spire of Silence sealed behind them—its violet glow fading into the sun-scorched rock—the four companions stood on shifting sands, changed in ways they couldn't yet name.
None spoke for a while.
Wind howled.
The same sun beat overhead.
But nothing felt the same.
"It's not over," Ael said flatly, eyes fixed on the horizon. "The Herald's last words weren't a bluff."
Elric looked up, sweat beading on his brow. "The Executioner… awake after all these centuries? That thing was sealed by gods older than time. What could've stirred him now?"
"You know the answer," Arienne replied, voice grim. "Us. The Heartstone. Every seal we've uncovered. Every relic unburied."
Ael said nothing. He had already begun walking.
"Wait." Lyra jogged beside him. "Where are you going?"
"To the Sand Archive," he replied. "There's only one place left that holds records of pre-Ascension gods. If we're to understand who—or what—the Executioner is now, we'll find it there."
Elric frowned. "You mean that collapsed ruin east of the Dune Crescent? That place is haunted. Cursed."
"So is the world," Ael said. "We walk it anyway."
Lyra gave a crooked grin. "Good answer, Your Highness."
Ael paused, hearing that old title. He wasn't sure if she used it to mock, to remind, or to care. But strangely—it didn't sting.
Not like before.
They set off.
—
The Sand Archive lay buried beneath the bones of an ancient kingdom long swallowed by the dunes. A spiral ruin poked through the desert like a sunken tower, half-devoured and forgotten.
Getting there wasn't easy.
Monsters stalked the golden plains now—things twisted by void and mana, once men, now feral. The first night, a storm of ash descended on them, bringing with it a swarm of sand wraiths. Creatures of dust and memory, whispering with voices of the long dead.
They fought as a team.
Arienne shielded them with radiant blades, slicing through the shrieking wraiths. Elric burned through the rest with holy sigils carved mid-air. Lyra disappeared into the chaos and returned with a dozen kills on her daggers.
Ael fought without fury—without emotion—but not without purpose. That was the difference now. He moved for them, not just himself.
When it was done, they built camp in the lee of a shattered obelisk.
The fire flickered low.
Elric was asleep. Lyra cleaned her weapons in silence. Arienne sat beside Ael.
"You're quieter than usual," she said, not looking at him.
"I'm always quiet."
"You know what I mean."
He hesitated. "The Herald called me a fragment. That I'm a mistake. That I shouldn't exist."
"You believe him?"
"I don't know what to believe."
She turned to face him. "I do. You've bled for this world. You've saved people who didn't deserve it. You've made us follow you without asking. That's not a mistake, Ael. That's leadership."
He looked down at his hand—calloused, scarred, trembling faintly.
"I don't know if I was a good king," he whispered. "Before."
Arienne smiled faintly. "Maybe you weren't. But you're becoming a better man."
And for the first time, he didn't deflect.
He just listened.
—
By the fourth day, they reached the edge of the Sand Archive.
It was worse than expected.
The ruin had been unearthed recently—dug up by unknown hands. Pillars torn from the ground. Stones etched with forbidden glyphs. Magic residue still clung to the air like blood on steel.
"Someone's been here," Lyra muttered. "And not long ago."
Ael stepped forward. "They were looking for something."
Or someone.
They descended into the ruin.
Torches flared to life as they passed—a leftover enchantment from a civilization long dead. The walls were covered in language no longer taught. Elric muttered translations, his brow furrowed deeper with each word.
"This speaks of the Eater of Names," he whispered. "The god without origin. The Executioner was once his right hand."
"And now he's free," Arienne said, scanning the glyphs.
Lyra crouched beside a broken pedestal. "This was a vault. Something was taken."
Ael knelt.
The ground was still warm.
And there—in the dust—was a symbol etched in blood.
A sun being eclipsed by a fang.
He rose to his feet. "He has followers."
Elric's face paled. "That sigil… it belongs to the Crimson Faith. But they were wiped out decades ago."
"Not wiped out," Ael said coldly. "Just hiding."
Arienne stepped beside him. "What do we do now?"
He looked to the east.
The dunes howled again.
And the spire on the horizon—black, jagged—began to glow.
"We find their temple," Ael said. "And we burn it to the ground."