Ashhold slept beneath a ceiling of stars, but its Sovereign did not. Callan walked the upper corridors of the Black Spire alone, armor dim, flame coiled low and steady beneath his skin. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that shadow—faceless, unbound by the world's rules, a thing that didn't belong to any realm of life or death. Not even the Flame, with all its will and fury, had warned him of such an entity.
He reached the Spire's sanctum—an enclosed sphere of obsidian and starlight, floating above the rest of the tower. From here, he could see the threads of magic that connected every living being within the Riftlands. It looked like a constellation drawn in motion—people, creatures, spirits, all moving according to some vast, unknowable pattern.
He hated patterns. They reminded him of fate.
Solenne entered quietly, carrying a scroll and two cups of steaming frostleaf tea. She offered one without a word. He took it.
"I figured you'd be brooding," she said.
"I'm reflecting."
"Call it what it is."
He sighed, took a sip, then motioned to the scroll. "What news?"
She unfurled it. "Three more scout teams disappeared near the Shivering Hollow. Mana readings suggest the same distortion as before—non-elemental disruption, like a vacuum pulling magic inward."
"Like the shadow."
"Or worse. The distortion zones are spreading. It's slow, but consistent."
He stared at the map etched into the scroll. Red splotches marked the hollows, clustered like an infection. "Any survivors?"
"None," she said. "But we picked up a pulse from beneath the old ruins of Vareth. Riftborn shamans say it felt like a heartbeat."
Callan stood. "Then that's where we go."
"Not alone."
He didn't argue this time.
Within the hour, they departed with a strike force: Ren, ever watchful, his dual blades humming with stormlight; Kael, a Riftborn warrior whose crystal-laced skin pulsed with defensive enchantments; and Shura, the half-spirit rogue who moved like mist and left no footprints behind. They flew aboard a levitating platform, guided by a tethered beacon stone.
Vareth rose like a scar from the Rift. The ruins were once a great fortress-city from the Age of Binding, long before the Immortal Sovereign. Now, they jutted from the earth like broken teeth, shrouded in mist and silence. Even the Riftborn avoided this place. Not because of curses, but because something listened here.
As they descended, the fog thickened. No birds. No insects. Not even the usual buzz of mana in the air. It was a dead zone.
Ren looked uncomfortable. "I hate places that don't scream at me. At least screaming means something's alive."
Kael tapped the ground with a war-rod. "Stone is fractured. There's movement beneath."
Shura vanished for a moment, then reappeared near a cracked archway. "Found something. You're not going to like it."
They followed her into a broken vault. The stone had been shattered inward, not outward—something had escaped, not entered. Along the walls, runes had been carved in blood and gold, flickering weakly.
"They were trying to hold it in," Solenne said.
"No," Callan corrected. "Trying to contain what it left behind."
In the center of the vault stood a mirror.
Ten feet tall. Frame of silvered bone. Glass so dark it swallowed torchlight.
Callan approached.
His reflection didn't move.
He stepped closer. The reflection stayed perfectly still, its eyes locked onto his.
He extended a hand.
The mirror cracked.
Not from the center, but from the edges. As though something inside was pushing out.
Kael moved forward, shield raised. "That's not a mirror. It's a gate."
Ren growled. "To where?"
Before anyone could answer, the mirror shattered.
Not violently. Silently. Like smoke curling into itself.
And behind it, a stairwell descended—down, down, far deeper than the earth should allow.
A whisper rose from the dark.
"Return me."
Callan summoned his flame. "No one speaks until I say so. We move."
They descended single file, the stairwell narrowing with every step. The walls pulsed like veins. Lights dimmed. Magic frayed. Even Callan felt his strength diminish the deeper they went. Something here ate power.
At the bottom, they reached a vast underground chamber—a cathedral of bone. Not crafted. Grown. Thousands of rib-like pillars curved toward a domed ceiling, where a hollow eye watched them from above.
In the center of the room stood a pedestal. On it rested a single item.
A crown.
It looked ancient, rusted, but beneath the tarnish, strange symbols moved—letters from no known language, forming and unforming with each blink.
Ren swore. "That's Sovereign-forged."
Solenne stepped forward. "No. It's pre-Sovereign. This... this predates the Flame."
Callan approached. The crown pulsed as he neared. He could feel it—not calling, but challenging.
His hand hovered above it.
A voice boomed—not from the room, but from the crown itself.
"You wear the Flame's mantle, but do you command it?"
He clenched his jaw. "I command myself."
The crown shimmered—and in a blink, the chamber transformed.
He stood in a battlefield of white ash. Millions dead. Skies torn open. Mountains burning.
In the distance, a figure stood—wearing the crown.
Callan walked toward it. The figure turned.
It was him.
But older. Paler. Eyes hollow. Face tired.
"Is this my future?" Callan asked.
The other Callan spoke. "This is your potential."
"Is this what the crown offers?"
"No," the double said. "This is what you choose, if you wear it without cost."
The real Callan clenched his fists. "Then what does it want?"
"To be understood."
The scene collapsed. He stood again in the bone cathedral, the crown before him.
His team hadn't moved. Time had frozen for them.
He placed a hand on the crown.
For a heartbeat, the entire Rift shook.
Then he pulled back.
The crown remained.
He turned away.
"I don't need it," he said.
Solenne exhaled. "That's the first wise thing you've done this week."
Ren smirked. "I was ready to fight Evil You. Kinda disappointed."
Shura pointed. "Guys..."
The ribbed cathedral began to close.
"Out!" Callan barked.
They ran, the bone-arches folding behind them like a mouth snapping shut. Just as they reached the stairwell, the chamber collapsed entirely, swallowing the crown, the pedestal, and the mirror.
They emerged into the ruins just as the sun crested the distant peaks.
Callan looked back.
That crown had tested him—and shown him what he might become.
He wouldn't forget.
He couldn't afford to.
Because the real war hadn't even begun.