They buried Mila under the twisted remains of the Heartwood Tree.
Or what was left of it.
Its once-glowing branches were blackened now, scarred by the Choir's fires, its roots exposed like broken veins.
Liora stood over the shallow grave, dirt on her hands, the warmth of her magic still flickering low in her chest like the last breath of a dying candle.
There was no ceremony.
No hymns.
Only silence.
"She was just a child," Eliane whispered, kneeling with bloodied hands in her lap. "She braided my godsdamn hair."
Dareth didn't speak. He stood with his back to them, watching the treeline like a hound awaiting the next fight.
He hadn't looked at Liora since the killing.
Not really.
Not since she'd burned the Choir agent alive—soul and all. Not since her power had lashed so wildly it had scorched the ground beneath them and turned the sky a deep, unnatural red.
Something inside her had cracked.
She felt it still. Like a second heartbeat. Hot and coiled and waiting to be fed again.
"We can't stay here," Dareth said finally, still facing the woods.
Liora didn't argue. Couldn't. She placed the last stone on Mila's grave and rose.
"We go north," she said. "To the Iron Cradle. There's a Veil shrine buried under the old mines. It's still protected by rites… and old blood."
"The kind of old blood you can use," Dareth said coldly.
Liora flinched.
She deserved that.
"It's where my father sealed the Echo Rites when he abandoned the Order. It might still hold what we need to breach the next tier."
"You mean what you need."
Eliane placed a hand on Dareth's arm, her voice quiet but firm.
"She's not our enemy, Dareth."
"She's not our friend either. Not anymore."
He walked off before Liora could reply.
And for once, she didn't try.
Because part of her agreed with him.
They traveled in silence for hours, the landscape changing from dead forest to iron-colored hills. The wind howled low, whispering things it shouldn't have known.
The Iron Cradle loomed ahead—ancient ruins carved into the side of a black mountain. Shattered pillars, long abandoned, twisted like ribcages around a deep chasm in the earth.
It was said to be cursed.
Perfect.
"Stay close," Liora said, eyes narrowing.
Dareth rolled his shoulders.
"I'm not here for the scenery."
They descended into the Cradle, torchlight flickering across etched stone. Veil sigils shimmered faintly along the walls, some half-erased, others… pulsing with unnatural energy.
Liora paused before a sealed doorway.
She pressed her palm against it.
"It wants blood."
"Of course it does," Dareth muttered.
She cut her hand without hesitation.
The stone drank deep.
The doorway cracked, groaned, then opened, revealing a narrow tunnel that pulsed with deep, violet light.
Inside… lay the forgotten sanctuary.
And more than that, a voice.
"You finally returned, Daughter of Ash."
Liora's breath caught.
It wasn't an illusion. The voice wasn't imagined.
She stepped forward slowly.
A ghost stood in the center of the room—tall, pale, eyes like molten silver.
"Alric," she whispered.
Her father.
But not alive.
Not exactly.
"You're not him," she said flatly.
"No. Just the echo he left behind. A piece of his soul, trapped in this place. Waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
"For you to stop running."
The ghost stepped closer, and for a moment, he looked tired.
"The Hollow Flame is not a gift, Liora. It's a debt. Every soul you burn pushes you closer to the threshold."
"I crossed that line when they killed Mila."
"No," the ghost said. "You crossed it when you enjoyed it."
Silence.
Heavy. Sharp.
Liora said nothing. Couldn't.
He turned and pointed toward the back of the room—an altar, covered in dust, surrounded by ancient glyphs and a ring of soulstone shards.
"There. The trial of the Veil-tier. You will see the truth."
"Truth of what?"
"Yourself."
"I already know who I am."
"You know what you want to be. That's not the same."
She walked past him, her boots echoing on the stone.
The altar pulsed as she approached. Light spilled upward in a torrent of silver flame.
And then she was gone.
The trial was not fire.
It was memory.
She stood in a snow-covered field, watching herself as a child.
Training.
Failing.
Crying.
Then her mother—gentle, fierce—lifting her up, healing her scraped palms with a kiss and whispering a name she hadn't heard in years.
"Ashalira."
Her birth name.
The one she gave up when she embraced necromancy.
Another memory. Older. Bloodier.
Her first kill. A man who begged. Who cried. Who looked like her brother and sounded like her fear.
Another flash—her mother's body, torn open by White Circle blades, her father not arriving in time.
She screamed.
And the memories bled into fire.
The Hollow Flame waited at the center of it all.
A woman stood beside it.
Not a ghost. Not a shade.
Herself.
Older.
Darker.
Power leaking from her skin like mist.
"This is who you become if you stop caring."
"You look strong."
"I am."
"What did we lose to get there?"
The future self didn't answer.
She didn't have to.
Liora stepped into the flame.
When she awoke, hours later, Dareth and Eliane were standing at her side.
"You were out for a day," Eliane said, eyes red from crying.
"You didn't scream," Dareth added. "Not once."
Liora rose slowly.
Her veins felt like they were humming. Her eyes burned.
But she was… calm.
Balanced.
More herself than she had been in years.
"What happened?" Dareth asked.
"I passed the Veil-tier," she said. "But it came with a price."
"What price?"
She looked down at her hands.
They were glowing faintly with silver veins. No longer just the Hollow Flame. Something deeper now. Bound tighter to her soul.
"The next time I use soul fusion… I don't come back the same."
"What does that mean?"
She looked at them both.
"It means if I fall too far… you end me."
Dareth didn't answer.
But Eliane nodded.
And somehow, that was enough.
Above the Iron Cradle, the sky split.
The Pale Choir was coming again.
This time… with Mavrek at the helm.
And Liora was ready.
She had new power.
New truth.
And less to lose than ever.