The wind howled over the cliffs, dry and bitter.
Liora stood barefoot at the edge, her robes tattered and stained with soot. The cold didn't reach her. Not anymore. Not since she opened the Vault. Not since she let that thing burn its mark into her bones.
The rune still throbbed beneath her collarbone—like it had teeth, like it was hungry.
Behind her, the others prepared to move the camp. The Iron Cradle was no longer safe. Too many knew of it. Too many dead had whispered its location into the dreams of madmen.
Eliane approached quietly.
"They're ready," she said.
Liora didn't turn around.
"Then they should go."
"And you?"
"There's something I need to see first."
Eliane's jaw tightened.
"You keep saying that. You keep leaving. And every time you come back, you're less… you."
"What am I then?" Liora asked. "More or less doesn't matter if I'm the only one willing to cross the line."
"That's exactly what he wants."
Liora did turn then—eyes sharp, glowing faintly with the residue of soulflame.
"Mavrek?"
Eliane nodded. "He wants you alone. He wants you desperate. You're playing right into it."
"I have to know how far I can go."
"Why?"
Liora's voice cracked, raw with something that hadn't bled through in a long time.
"Because if I don't… someone else will decide for me."
Deep within the Vale Scar—the ancient wound torn through the world after the First War—Liora walked alone.
The path was cursed. Shadows clung to her like smoke. Whispers slithered along the walls, not quite voices, not quite memory. And deeper still, the bones of gods lay crumbled like broken myths.
She reached the heart of it: an obsidian platform floating above a slow-spinning vortex of light. This was where the first necromancers had traded pieces of their soul for knowledge. This was where Alric himself had carved the first soulbrand into his chest.
And this was where she found it.
A mirror. Cracked, faceless. Covered in blood that was still warm.
Her own face stared back from it—but it wasn't her.
The reflection smiled.
"You've finally come," it said.
Liora drew her blade.
"I'm not afraid of myself."
"You should be," the reflection said, stepping forward. "I'm what you become if you lose."
"I'm not losing."
"Not yet."
The reflection lunged. Steel met steel, but it wasn't a battle of blades. Every swing was a memory. Every parry, a buried guilt. She saw Mira's death. She saw the day she left her brother to die. She saw the night she first raised a corpse and smiled when it obeyed.
And in that moment, her will cracked.
Just a little.
But it was enough.
The mirror shattered.
And a new rune seared itself into her left palm: the sigil of the Veilborn.
Back at the camp, Dareth prepared the convoy for departure. Supplies loaded. Survivors cataloged. Wards in place.
Eliane stood off to the side, fingers twitching around her blade hilt.
"We should've stayed," she muttered.
Dareth sighed. "She said she'd catch up."
"And if she doesn't?"
"Then we mourn her with the rest."
Eliane said nothing.
But her heart whispered: She's not dead. She's worse.
Miles away, in the depths of Hollowspire, Mavrek watched the flames as they curled into shapes only he could read. His new acolyte, pale and stitched at the joints, whispered updates from a stolen tongue.
"She's breached the Scar."
"Good," Mavrek murmured. "Then the next trial begins."
The acolyte hesitated.
"But what if she survives it?"
Mavrek smiled, teeth too sharp for his mouth.
"Then she'll be strong enough to kill the rest of them."
Liora emerged from the Vale Scar broken but burning.
She didn't walk—she floated, barely tethered to the ground. Her eyes no longer glowed faintly. They blazed. And behind her, the vortex closed… but not completely.
Something slipped through after her.
Not a creature.
Not a god.
A memory. Alive.
It took the form of a young boy with violet eyes and a bone-carved dagger.
"Sister," he whispered.
Liora froze.
"No," she breathed. "You're not real."
"Not yet," the boy said.
And then he smiled.
Just like her brother used to.