The days that followed the Breachspawn's fall were thick with dread.
Ashhold didn't sleep. Every torch was lit, every corridor patrolled, every mage cycling their wards twice per hour. It wasn't just fear—it was preparation. Something ancient had stirred, and every Riftborn could feel it. The Flame trembled in the bones of the world.
But amidst the chaos, a single summons arrived—handwritten, sealed with sigil-wax older than any kingdom.
It bore only four words.
"Return the Oath, Callan."
He stared at it for a long time before speaking. "It's from the Oathkeeper."
Solenne froze. "He's still alive?"
Ren snorted. "I thought the Oathkeeper went mad and disappeared into the Pale Bastion decades ago."
Callan's jaw tightened. "He didn't disappear. He was sent away. Exiled for refusing to pass the Flame."
The Pale Bastion had once been a fortress of loyalty, a stronghold where every Sovereign's pledge was forged in fire and bound by blood. Now it was more myth than memory, a place riddled with betrayal and forgotten truths.
And now, Callan would return to it.
They left that same evening. Callan, Solenne, and Shura took the Riftpath—an ancient road that wound through the faultlines of the world, faster than airships, deadlier than beasts. The path opened only for those with Sovereign blood.
It answered Callan's presence.
As they traveled, Solenne pressed him. "You haven't told me what happened the last time you saw the Oathkeeper."
"I was thirteen," Callan said. "The Sovereign of that era demanded I take my oath early. The Oathkeeper refused. Said I wasn't ready."
"And?"
Callan's expression darkened. "He drew steel. Killed three guards. And vanished."
Shura leaned on her sword. "Sounds like a man who saw the game too early."
When they reached the Pale Bastion, it was not as Callan remembered.
The fortress looked...unmade.
Not destroyed. Not crumbled. But peeling. Walls that faded in and out of visibility. Windows that reflected different eras. And above it all, the sky bled silver mist.
They entered in silence.
No guards.
No wards.
Only a long hall filled with statues—each one a Sovereign carved in their moment of greatest triumph.
Until the final statue.
This one was Callan.
Not as he was—but as he would be. Older. Scarred. Crownless. Holding a sword with a shattered core.
He stepped closer.
And the statue blinked.
Shura raised her blades instantly. "That's cursed."
The statue cracked.
From within it stepped the Oathkeeper.
His armor was gold-veined obsidian. His face was gaunt, but his eyes burned with clarity. He held no weapon. He didn't need one.
"You've brought the Flame here," he said. "You shouldn't have."
"I was summoned," Callan said.
"I summoned the man who was Sovereign. Not the one who now carries the Breach inside him."
Callan didn't flinch. "I didn't choose that."
"You didn't refuse it either."
The Oathkeeper walked slowly around them, each step echoing across the shifting stone. "Do you know what an Oath is, Callan?"
"A binding truth."
"No. An Oath is a threat in disguise. It's a blade cloaked in honor. Every Flamebearer who made an oath sealed a curse beneath it."
Solenne narrowed her eyes. "That's blasphemy."
"It's truth," the Oathkeeper said sharply. "Ask him."
Callan said nothing.
Because he already knew.
He remembered the voices in the Hollow Choir. The warnings in the Breachfire. The dreams where each Sovereign died screaming, not in glory, but in containment.
Every oath Callan made pulled tighter the chain around his spirit.
And he'd made hundreds.
The Oathkeeper stopped in front of him.
"I can sever them," he said. "All of them. Every promise you made to gods and men. But you'll lose the Flame."
Callan's heart pounded.
"You'll lose your right to command," the Oathkeeper continued. "No more miracles. No more Breachfire. Just a man. Free."
Shura blinked. "Wait—you'd give that up?"
Callan stared at his hands.
They still glowed faintly. Power hummed beneath his skin. But for the first time, he wondered if he controlled it—or if it controlled him.
Solenne whispered, "If you do this, there's no going back."
Callan nodded.
And then he turned to the Oathkeeper. "Then let me ask you something."
The older man tilted his head.
"If you had the power to hold the Breach shut, but it would cost you your freedom...would you do it?"
The Oathkeeper's voice dropped. "I already did."
Callan understood then. The Oathkeeper wasn't guarding the Bastion. He was the Bastion. He had bound himself to it. Trapped in time. Holding something far worse inside its walls.
"You've been delaying the second cycle," Callan said.
"I have."
"But it's begun."
"Yes."
Callan's breath shook. "Then what's the point of all this?"
The Oathkeeper's eyes burned. "To see if you're worthy of my death."
Then he drew his blade.
Black steel.
Hollow edge.
And swung.
Callan blocked with instinct, the Breachfire coating his hands in shadowflame. Their clash split the floor. Solenne screamed a warning and pulled back. Shura lunged at the Oathkeeper's flank, but he vanished, reappearing behind Callan, blade already descending.
Callan countered—but too late. The edge caught his side.
Pain bloomed.
The Breach inside him flared.
He screamed—and the Flame responded.
The air tore open around them, shards of memory and possibility swirling like a storm. The Pale Bastion cracked further, reality weeping at the seams.
The Oathkeeper smiled.
"That's what I wanted to see."
Callan fell to his knees.
"I'm not your enemy," the older man said. "But if you hesitate again... I will become one."
He sheathed his sword.
And vanished into flame.
Callan remained kneeling, blood seeping through his side, the air still thick with power.
Solenne knelt beside him. "That wasn't a duel."
"No," Callan said hoarsely. "It was a test."
Shura helped him to his feet. "Did you pass?"
He looked toward the center of the Bastion.
Toward the great door that had never opened in recorded history.
It was now ajar.
He smiled through the pain. "We're about to find out."