The journey to the Sky Wound began before dawn.
Amine stood at the edge of Thale's eastern gate, his breath visible in the chill morning air, a pack slung over his shoulder, and the Grimoire of Lirael clutched tightly under one arm. Mira joined him, dressed in a battle-worn cloak and carrying a map sealed in mage's wax.
Neither spoke for a while.
Beyond them stretched the Silent Reaches—a scorched plain of obsidian and ash that had once been a thriving forest. It was said no birds sang there. No beasts dared tread close. The land had been touched by the Wound.
By the gateway to another sky.
By Amnesthia.
They traveled in silence most of the day. The wind carried strange echoes—snatches of laughter, cries, and whispered names. Illusions, Mira said. Remnants of the rupture between worlds. "The Wound doesn't bleed blood," she explained. "It bleeds memories."
Thanor walked behind them, not summoned in battle-form but simply there—less beast, more guardian, his burning steps leaving no mark on the ground.
Amine couldn't shake the feeling that this place recognized him.
That something beneath the ash was watching.
As night fell, they made camp on a blackened hill overlooking the edge of the world.
There, the sky changed.
The stars above warped like rippling water. Clouds spun in concentric circles around a jagged rift in the heavens—a wound indeed, pulsing faintly with violet and gold light.
The Sky Wound.
Amine had seen it from afar, but now, so close, it was not just a tear—it was a mouth. And it hungered.
Mira sat cross-legged near the fire, the Grimoire open in her lap.
"Do you feel it?" she asked.
"Like… I'm supposed to be here."
She nodded slowly. "That's how the First Mage felt, according to legend. Like this place called him."
"Then what is it?" Amine asked. "Why here?"
She looked toward the Wound. "The first dragons didn't come through by accident. This is a designed breach. Something on the other side sent them… as scouts. Weapons. Or maybe seeds."
"Seeds for what?"
Mira didn't answer.
At dawn, they reached the Gate.
It wasn't a gate in the traditional sense. It was a massive arch of black stone, half-submerged in the earth, covered in unreadable glyphs that shimmered with liquid light. Hovering around it were four monoliths—each bearing the same symbol as the Grimoire.
The circle. The claw. The lightning.
As they stepped closer, one of the monoliths lit up.
Thanor growled low.
Amine reached forward.
The moment his hand brushed the surface, a pulse of energy knocked him backward—and everything went black.
He stood in a field of stars.
Above him: an impossible sky.
Below: an endless mirror.
And in front of him: a figure.
Human. But not. Pale skin that glowed faintly. Eyes like molten glass. Silver threads running through his veins like root systems.
"I am not your enemy," the figure said.
Amine's voice caught. "Who are you?"
"I am the memory of the first dragon," the figure said. "The first to remember what we truly are."
"You're not a dragon," Amine whispered.
"No," the figure replied. "I am what dragons were before the corruption. Before we were twisted by the forces on the other side."
"The other side of what?"
"The gate."
Amine took a step forward. "Then… what's over there?"
The figure's eyes dimmed. "Something that unravels. Something that feeds. And it wants to wear your world like a mask."
Amine swallowed hard.
"Then why show me this?"
"Because you are not like the others," the figure said. "You died once. You know the pull of void. You are already half-echo. That makes you immune to what's coming. Or perhaps… perfect for it."
Amine woke with a gasp, Mira's hands on his shoulders.
"You were gone," she said. "For ten minutes. Your eyes were white. You wouldn't wake up."
He looked at the monolith. The symbol was still glowing.
"They're not just gates," Amine whispered. "They're memories. Locked away. Traps, or maybe warnings."
He turned to her.
"Mira… whatever's on the other side—it's not just dragons. It's older. And it wants in."
They didn't open the gate.
Not yet.
But they marked its location, copied its runes, and swore to return with more mages.
Amine knew something now he hadn't before: the dragons weren't the root of the war.
They were the consequence.
The real war hadn't started.
It was waiting.
As they walked back to Thale, Mira broke the silence.
"What did it say to you?"
Amine looked up at the morning sky, the Wound still pulsing faintly in the distance.
"It said I wasn't like the others," he murmured.
She gave him a long look.
"You're not."