The city of Glaivenreach was quiet, but not peaceful.
The Hollowed Court had withdrawn, but their presence still lingered—like a taste in the air no one could name, only feel. The cobbled streets, once patrolled by honor-bound sentinels, now held the scuff marks of eldritch things. Citizens emerged slowly, blinking, confused, like dreamers waking from too-long sleep.
They remembered pieces: glimpses of warlocks in grey, windows that bled light, whispers that scratched behind their eyes. But the faces of the ones who had kept them alive—those remained lost in fog.
The Warden didn't speak to them.
He walked.
Through alleys he once patrolled.
Past statues built in his image—now vandalized and cracked.
A child watched him from a window high above, her eyes wide, a ribbon of red tied at her wrist. She didn't wave. She only stared, as if watching something she wasn't sure was real.
His crimson coat dragged slightly in the wind. The cane at his side no longer glowed with warning. It pulsed instead—slow, rhythmic, aware.
"Something's still watching," he said.
The cane responded with a faint click.
At the far end of the city stood a crooked spire of black stone.
The Hollow Tower.
Once a signal beacon. Now long sealed.
Few remembered why it was built. Fewer still remembered what was buried beneath it.
He did.
Because he put it there.
The Warden passed through the gates—gates he had forged himself. Runes lined the stone arch, glowing faintly as he approached. Symbols of containment, of warding, and of guilt. The cane shimmered, recognizing the energy. The lock disengaged with a low mechanical growl that vibrated deep in his bones.
Inside: stairs.
Spiraling downward.
Not up.
He descended in silence, passing rusted lamps, collapsed railings, claw marks. Every stone felt heavy with unspoken memories. The air thickened with each level—not with heat, but with intensity, like each step pulled him deeper into something he shouldn't remember.
He had never counted how many steps there were. He only knew the silence grew heavier with each one.
The bottom level was circular. Stone chamber. Iron floor. One chair in the center.
And a mirror.
Cracked.
Still standing.
He stepped toward it.
His reflection stared back—only, it wasn't a reflection.
It was him, yes.
But younger. Crueler.
Smiling.
"You left me here," it said.
The Warden narrowed his eyes.
"You're not an Echo."
"No. I'm worse."
The mirror shimmered.
From its surface stepped a figure cloaked in torn red, eyes pitch black with a faint violet ring.
"You call yourself Crimson Warden," the figure said. "But you were always the Crimson Tyrant."
"That name died long ago."
"You buried me. But you needed me to win."
This was not one of the four Echoes.
This was something else.
Not memory. Not regret.
Suppressed power.
The piece he cut away not to survive—but to protect others from. A shard of self too dangerous to destroy. It had taken root in the Hollow Tower.
And it had grown.
The Warden raised his cane.
The air didn't react.
The shadows didn't tremble.
Because here—he was the invader.
"Why are you still alive?" he asked.
"Because you still need me," the shadow replied. "And the Court knows it."
"They're trying to make me take you back."
"They don't have to. You're already slipping."
The shadow stepped forward, barefoot across the iron floor.
"They sent a Judge to rattle your cage. But me? I'm here to offer a deal."
"I don't make deals with echoes of monsters."
"You did once. And you became a legend."
"That legend cost me everything."
"And gave you power. Real power. The kind that bends Judges. That frightens Courts."
The cane began to glow again—faint crimson, but laced with static.
The Warden stepped forward, jaw tight.
"I came to seal this place for good."
"No," said the shadow. "You came because you remember what you lost. And you're starting to wonder... if maybe it was worth the cost."
A silence followed.
Not stillness—suspense. Like a held breath from something larger than the room.
Then, a sound echoed from above.
Not metal.
Wings.
Dozens.
Sharp, dry, insectoid. Carrying whispers with them like dust. A message from the cane's spirits. A warning.
Something had followed him down.
Something wearing his face.
The Warden turned his gaze upward, toward the narrowing spiral.
"They're here."
"Of course they are," the shadow said. "You left the gate open."
The Warden stepped back from the mirror.
"I'm not ready for you," he said. "But I'm not afraid anymore."
The shadow's smile widened.
"That's what all men say. Right before they remember how sweet the power tasted."
The chamber pulsed once.
Then fell still.
The mirror cracked further.
The cane dimmed.
He turned.
Climbed the stairs.
And did not look back.
But in his chest, something stirred.
A name he hadn't spoken in years.
A name before Crimson.
Before Warden.
The name the Hollowed Court feared more than any other.
His true name.
And above, the wings began to descend.