The march from the Whispering Hills was heavy. Not in weight, but in meaning.
Callan had changed.
He didn't say it. He didn't need to.
Every step he took left a faint trail of heat behind him. Not smoke. Not fire. Just...pressure. As if the world itself acknowledged that something inside him now burned different. The Hollow Choir had left its mark—not on his flesh, but on his will.
Ren kept sneaking glances at him. Solenne walked at a calculated distance, lips moving in silent calculation. Even Shura, usually flippant, watched him with narrowed eyes. They all knew.
He was no longer just a Sovereign.
He was now part of the Flame's lineage—in a way none before him had been.
Ashhold greeted their return with muted reverence. Whispers spread like embers in the wind. The Sovereign has seen the Choir.He walks with forgotten fire.The chains rattle again.
Callan didn't care.
He made for the citadel's highest tower—a room he rarely visited.
The Hall of Remnants.
Inside, the walls were lined with relics: the broken crown of the Third Sovereign, the Flame-wreathed gauntlets of the Tenth, the Eye of the Fallen Watcher—a gemstone that bled memories.
He stepped past each artifact, stopping only when he reached the Stone Mirror.
It wasn't made of metal or glass, but obsidian carved from the Rift's heart. Its surface was flawless, yet it reflected nothing. Not even light. For centuries it had been inert.
Now it hummed.
He reached out.
This time, it responded before he even touched it.
The surface rippled.
And then he saw himself.
But not as he was.
This version wore a crown not of ash, but bone. His armor was scorched and smoking. His eyes were hollow pits filled with coals. Behind him, cities burned. Mountains cracked. The sky wept molten rain.
And still—he stood.
The mirror version of Callan opened his mouth.
And spoke one word.
"Choose."
The image vanished.
Callan stepped back, heart hammering.
"Choose," he repeated aloud.
What choice was there? He had inherited the Flame. He was bound to the world's survival.
Or was that the lie? The chain?
Solenne entered behind him. "It's activating, isn't it?"
He nodded.
She stepped beside him, gazing into the obsidian.
"What did it show you?"
"Myself," he said. "Or something close to it. A future, maybe. A warning."
"Or a possibility," she said softly. "Mirrors don't show truth. They show what could be."
"I saw death."
"You've always been surrounded by death, Callan. What matters is what kind."
He turned to her, eyes sharp. "Do you believe I'm still me?"
Her answer was immediate.
"No."
He frowned.
"You're more," she added. "And that terrifies me."
Before he could respond, the tower shook.
Not gently. Not from wind or storm.
But from an impact.
Alarms blared across Ashhold. Bells designed to never ring did so now—deep and slow, like the tolling of doom.
Callan and Solenne rushed to the balcony.
In the distance, beyond the outer walls, a crater had formed.
From the sky, something had fallen—no, been thrown.
Within it, a figure knelt.
It rose.
Twisted.
Tall.
Wrapped in cloth and chains.
Eyes like black stars, burning with gravity instead of light.
It screamed—not with voice, but presence.
Every Riftborn within ten miles dropped to their knees.
Callan's own breath caught.
Because he recognized it.
Not from life. But from dreams.
From the Breach visions.
Solenne whispered, "That's not from this world."
"No," Callan said. "It's what wants to be in this world."
They teleported to the crater's edge within seconds. Ren and Shura flanked them.
"What the actual abyss is that?" Ren asked, voice tight.
Shura drew both swords. "I don't think it bleeds."
The creature stood fully now. Unfurling.
It was twelve feet tall. Maybe more. Limbs like tree roots. A face made of shifting plates. And in its chest burned a familiar flame—white fire, flickering hungrily.
Callan stepped forward.
It turned to him.
"Key," it said.
Then lunged.
Callan met it with a burst of crimson flame. Not enough to kill. Just to slow.
It barely flinched.
Solenne shouted, drawing runes mid-air, flinging spears of lightning. Ren vanished in shadow, striking from behind. Shura carved her twin arcs in a blur.
Still, it came.
It swatted them aside like insects.
Only Callan stood.
He raised both hands.
And let go of the restraint he had clung to for so long.
The white fire in the creature's chest responded.
So did the shard buried inside him—the gift of the Choir.
He screamed, and flame answered.
Not red. Not blue. Not white.
But black.
The Breachfire.
Fire that consumed not to destroy—but to erase.
His body burned with it.
The crater lit with it.
The creature paused.
Then it screamed again.
Callan didn't wait.
He dove forward, blade in hand, Breachfire blazing across the edge. He carved upward, through the creature's chest, splitting it open in a column of forgotten light.
It fell.
The flames around Callan dimmed—but did not die.
When the smoke cleared, the others approached.
Ren looked shaken. "That...wasn't normal."
Shura stared at the scorched earth. "You're burning like something else."
Callan nodded. "I am."
Solenne stepped beside him. "The Breach answered."
"I didn't call it."
"You didn't have to."
He looked to the horizon.
"I think we just triggered the second cycle."
And above them, the clouds broke.
A ring of fire ignited around the sun—unnatural, precise.
A mark.
A warning.
The world had noticed.
And it was watching.