The great doors of the Pale Bastion creaked open, their ancient hinges groaning with the weight of centuries. Callan stood tall, despite the pain seeping from his side. His blood was thick, heavy with the remnants of the Oathkeeper's blade. Yet, the darkness that had begun to spread around him was not from the wound—it was from something else entirely.
Something inside him was stirring.
The Bastion had always been a place of cold stillness, a place where time seemed to freeze around the Oath. But now, as the door opened, a heat spread across the walls—an almost unbearable pressure.
He stepped forward.
Ren and Shura flanked him, their expressions unreadable, but their readiness palpable. Solenne lingered behind, the weight of their journey now settling on her shoulders.
The path before them stretched into darkness—an abyss, an unknown. It was a tunnel, winding deeper than the Bastion's exterior, a place untouched by history.
"The Oathkeeper's choice," Callan muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "To test me, or to bind me."
"Seems like he's done both," Solenne replied. "But now, you're here."
Ren nodded. "And now we walk into whatever nightmare he's been hiding."
"I'm more concerned about what he's hiding," Callan said. "Whatever this is, it's his past."
Shura raised her twin blades. "Then let's find out."
They descended.
The deeper they went, the darker it became. The air thickened, and each step was louder than the last, as though the Bastion itself were waking to their presence. Time twisted. Seconds turned into minutes, then hours. The path stretched, and yet it felt as if they were only moving deeper into eternity.
At last, they reached the end.
A vast chamber lay before them, its size incomprehensible. The ceiling seemed to stretch beyond sight, and the walls were covered in symbols—ancient, worn, but still legible. They told stories—lives long forgotten, betrayals untold, and Sovereigns who had come and gone, each of them bound by the same oath, each of them sacrificing a piece of their soul to hold the Flame.
But at the center of the chamber stood a pedestal, and atop it rested a blackened stone—the heart of the Bastion. It pulsed with an eerie light, an unsettling glow that seemed to reach out toward them.
"What is this?" Solenne whispered.
"The core of the Oathkeeper's prison," Callan replied, his voice low. "It's not just his responsibility. It's his curse."
As if in response, the ground trembled beneath them. The chamber was alive with movement. The symbols on the walls began to shift, and the air turned hot. The blackened stone pulsed faster, sending waves of energy rippling through the room.
Callan stepped forward, his breath steady despite the pounding in his chest. The stone was calling to him, resonating with the Flame inside him. He reached out.
"No," Solenne warned. "Don't touch it!"
But it was too late.
As his hand made contact with the stone, the chamber exploded in light.
For a moment, everything vanished. The world was consumed by pure, searing brightness.
Then, it all stopped.
Callan found himself standing alone, though he could still feel the presence of his companions. They were there, just out of sight—faint whispers of movement, like shadows in the periphery of his vision.
Before him, the world was... different.
It was the same chamber, but the walls were now covered in something far more... real. The symbols glowed with power, but now they pulsed like blood through veins. The air smelled of fire, of ancient smoke. The temperature had risen dramatically.
And at the center of the room, the blackened stone was now a blazing inferno, swirling with impossible energy.
Callan stepped back, heart racing. "What have I done?"
He looked around. The others were still there—Ren, Solenne, and Shura—but they appeared frozen in time, suspended in a moment of intense stillness. Their forms flickered like mirages, half-formed and indistinct.
Then, the voice spoke.
"It has begun."
The words reverberated in his mind. Not in his ears. But deep within his skull. It was the voice of something far older than the Oathkeeper. Something beyond time itself.
Callan gritted his teeth. "Who are you?"
The voice laughed—low, echoing like thunder.
"I am the Forgotten One. The keeper of the flame. The one who was left behind."
The inferno swirled more violently. Images flashed before Callan's eyes—terrible images of a world consumed by chaos, of Sovereigns who had fallen to darkness, of a time before even the Oathkeeper.
"You should not have come here, Sovereign," the voice whispered. "But now that you have, there is no turning back."
A coldness settled over Callan. The air grew thick, heavy with the weight of ancient secrets. This was not a test. It was a reckoning.
The stone at the center of the chamber cracked open.
From the cracks poured a river of black fire.
It swirled around Callan, binding him in chains of molten energy. He could feel the Breachfire within him, burning hotter, trying to resist the pull. But it was too strong. The chains tightened, squeezing his chest, his throat, his limbs.
He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe.
But through the haze of pain, he saw the form in the center of the fire. A shadow—tall, impossibly tall, shrouded in darkness and flame.
It stepped forward.
"I was the first," the voice boomed. "The first to bear the Flame. The first to break the Oath. And now, you will join me."
Callan's heart raced. He knew that voice. He had heard it. Deep inside, in the marrow of his soul.
The Forgotten One—his predecessor.
The first Sovereign.
But the price for his power had been too great.
The chains of fire tightened once more.
Callan struggled, but it was useless. His vision blurred. His body trembled with the weight of ancient force.
And then, in the darkness, he heard the Oathkeeper's voice.
"Choose."