The storm had passed, but its echo still haunted the Iron Cradle.
Ash clung to the air like an afterthought, sour and heavy. The dead had not yet cooled. Their souls still lingered—some whispering, some weeping—most simply waiting.
Liora didn't rest.
She stood alone in the catacombs beneath the Cradle, in a chamber no one else dared enter. The Vault of Echoes. Where the ancient necromancers kept their forbidden rites. Where soulbound relics lay dormant, whispering their secrets only to those who knew how to bleed properly.
And Liora had bled more than enough.
She stood in front of the black altar, a shattered skull in her hands.
"You were a king once," she murmured. "I can feel it. Pride. Cruelty. A deep love for someone who never loved you back."
She closed her eyes, let her magic run slow and smooth through her veins. She didn't rush. Veil-tier magic was like threading a needle through a hurricane—precision over power.
The skull pulsed in her palms.
"Let me see what you saw," she whispered.
The chamber dimmed. A coldness spread from her fingertips to her spine. Then the first memory struck—
A war-torn kingdom.
A throne of bone.
A girl with white eyes screaming as her father turned to ash.
She staggered, gritted her teeth, and held on.
These weren't just echoes.
They were warnings.
And she needed every one of them.
Above, the survivors of the Choir attack buried their dead.
Dareth led the rites, his voice hoarse and rough as he read names from a broken scrap of parchment. Each name was burned into the soil with a touch of spiritfire. Each body wrapped in soulthread and laid to rest beneath protective wards.
"They died protecting something greater than themselves," Dareth said. "Let their memory bind us stronger than our fear."
Eliane watched silently. Her eyes were dry. She didn't cry anymore.
She hadn't cried since she found Mira's body in the ruins of the western wall—her chest torn open, her eyes wide with terror.
"She begged me not to leave her alone," Eliane whispered.
Dareth turned to her, slow. "You stayed with her as long as you could."
"Not long enough."
"None of us were fast enough."
They stood there a moment, side by side, grieving in their own broken ways.
Then the ground trembled.
In the Vault, Liora's eyes snapped open.
The skull shattered in her hands, a silver flame bursting upward—and from within the flame, a figure stepped out.
Not human.
Not alive.
A guardian of the Veil.
"You call yourself heir," it said. Its voice sounded like the turning of pages in a dead language. "But your blood reeks of heresy."
"I didn't come for your approval," Liora said, standing tall. "I came to unlock the next gate."
The guardian tilted its head.
"You are not ready."
"I've bled for this."
"You've killed for this."
"I'll burn for it too, if I have to."
Silence.
Then the flame receded, revealing a black mark burned into the floor—a rune shaped like a keyhole.
"When the Veil opens again," the guardian said, "you will either become its keeper… or its final sacrifice."
And then it was gone.
Liora emerged hours later, drained but standing.
The sun was dipping behind the jagged cliffs, casting long shadows over the camp. Survivors turned to watch her. Some nodded. Others looked away.
Even now, she was starting to terrify them.
Even Eliane looked at her differently.
"You're changing," she said quietly.
"I have to."
"Not like this."
"Then how?"
Eliane didn't answer.
Because there was no right way to become a monster for the sake of peace.
That night, they burned Mira's body. Her ashes were scattered into the Soul Basin, where water flowed backwards through time.
Eliane held Liora's hand during the ceremony but said nothing.
Liora said a single word: "Sorry."
But it wasn't enough.
Far away, in the ruins of Hollowspire, Mavrek watched the moon rise.
The White Circle's ritual was almost complete.
A pillar of soulflame burned atop a ziggurat made from stolen bodies. Around it, acolytes chanted names that didn't belong to them.
"She's close," Mavrek said. "The Veil will open for her again soon."
Beside him, the new Hierarch knelt.
"Shall I prepare the vessel?"
"No need."
He turned toward the flame, smiling.
"We already have her."
And within the fire, an image shimmered—Liora, standing atop the cliffs, her eyes haunted, her hands still glowing with magic she didn't yet understand.
"She just doesn't know it yet."