The path to Maerith was not marked on any map. Even Lyka, with her half-burned memories and cursed blood, could only guess.
"It's not a road," she told Azael as they approached the Ashscar Wastes. "It's a scar in the world. You don't find Maerith. It lets you in—if it thinks you belong."
The trio moved through a dead land. Trees turned to black glass. Rivers ran backwards. The air smelled of forgotten fire and secrets. And something followed them. Not a beast. Not a man. Something that remembered what they'd forgotten.
Selene noticed it first. "There's a fourth set of tracks."
Azael's hand went to his blade. "We're being hunted."
—
That night, they camped beneath a skeletal archway where stars refused to shine.
The wind screamed through the bones.
Selene took first watch. Azael tried to sleep, but his dreams were knives.
He stood before a throne of ash. On it sat a version of himself—but hollow-eyed, bleeding flame from his mouth.
"You let them die," the hollow Azael whispered.
Then his reflection smiled, and flames consumed everything.
—
He awoke to silence.
No wind.
No fire crackle.
No Lyka.
He bolted upright—just in time to see Selene slumped forward, a needle of shadow in her neck.
And standing beside her—
Was a mirror image of Lyka.
But this girl's skin was smooth, untouched by burns. Her hair was longer. Her eyes glowed silver-blue.
She smiled. "I'm not your sister."
Azael rose to his feet slowly, weapon drawn. "Then who the hell are you?"
"I'm what she would've become," the girl said softly. "If she hadn't been broken."
Selene groaned behind Azael, stirring weakly.
The stranger's voice grew colder. "The Flame is awakening more than crowns. It's waking possibilities. Forgotten versions. Echoes that want in."
Azael stared at her, blood turning to ice. "You're not real."
"Oh, I'm real enough," she whispered, stepping forward. "Real enough to kill her—" she pointed at Selene "—and take her place in your little legend."
Azael's blade ignited.
Then came the laugh.
It echoed not from the girl—but from the shadows around them.
And from those shadows stepped another figure.
Tall. Masked in bone and obsidian. His presence bent the world.
The girl's eyes widened. "You—you're not supposed to be here yet."
The masked figure ignored her.
His gaze locked on Azael.
When he spoke, it was a voice Azael had never heard—but felt in his bones.
"Child of Ash. You tread paths not yet forged. The First Flame calls to you… but he is not your only inheritance."
The wind howled—and black fire erupted around him.
"You were born of prophecy," the masked one said, raising a single, clawed hand. "But I was born of its failure."
And then—he vanished.
But not before whispering one word into Azael's mind:
"Brother."
—
Azael dropped to his knees as the fire vanished.
Selene clutched his arm, barely conscious. "What… what was that?"
He couldn't answer.
Because in his heart, something cracked.
There weren't just heirs.
There weren't just crowns.
There were echoes. Versions. Unwritten brothers. Unchosen futures.
And one of them had just found him.
—
Far away, beneath Maerith, the chained god sat upright, eyes wide.
"He's come."
But his voice trembled with fear.
Stay tuned...