The journey back to the surface was a blur of silence. Lys kept close to Kael—formerly Emris—but neither spoke. The weight of the Trial lingered in Kael's limbs and in his breath. His eyes flicked toward every shifting shadow as though they might reach out to drag him back into the vault's illusions. But the orb—the blood-forged relic that pulsed with forgotten knowledge—rested in his satchel, heavy and alive with whispers he dared not acknowledge.
Night had fallen over Asael's Vigil. The stars above blinked through sheets of violet cloud. A storm brewed over the mountains to the east, throwing muted flashes of light across the stone-paved streets. The town was still unaware that its foundations hid the convergence of ancient magic. Kael wondered how long that would last.
When they arrived at the house they had taken as a safehold—an abandoned villa north of the square—Kael collapsed into a chair without a word. Lys stood at the doorway for a long while before finally entering.
"You don't look victorious," she said, kneeling and pulling the scythe from his back, propping it carefully against the wall.
"I don't feel victorious," Kael muttered. "I feel… hollow."
"The Trial of the Six was never about victory. It's a crucible. It tests if you can endure yourself."
Kael stared at the fireless hearth. "I'm not sure I passed."
Lys rose to her feet, pacing slowly across the room. "Then maybe you're closer than most ever get."
The Following Morning.
Kael stood atop a windswept overlook just outside the Vigil. Before him, the forest unfurled like a great sea of thorns, and beyond that—the shifting boundary where Eldrinthia's law ended and the unknown began. A soft metallic gleam at his hip drew his attention.
The orb. It pulsed now only when he touched it directly, feeding off his blood—his essence—to remain stable.
He unwrapped it and stared into its swirling interior. A memory surfaced.
A face—Gaelus—his father, standing at the edge of a deep crimson chamber. There were others. Figures in robes. A ritual circle.
And then the sound: screaming. Not of pain… of birth.
Kael staggered back.
Lys, who had followed him, caught his arm. "Another memory?"
Kael nodded. "I think… my birth was part of something else. A binding. A spell meant to create something that could harness blood magic without collapse."
"Not a mage, then," she whispered. "A vessel."
His eyes sharpened. "A weapon."
News came in the form of a raven.
Kael's informant in Azkaris sent word that the Kingdom had begun moving relic-hunters into old battlefields—particularly those from the Mage Rebellion era. One name stood out: House Vaelith, a lesser noble family aligned with the Church of Clarity.
"Vaelith has always been obsessed with purification," Lys muttered. "If they're looking for relics, it's to destroy them."
Kael read over the message again, then pointed at the note's final mark: the symbol ∴
"They're looking for this sigil. The same one from the chapel vault."
Lys frowned. "Then you think someone survived from that era?"
"I think," Kael said, his voice low, "that someone never left."
He rose, taking his scythe.
"We're going to intercept House Vaelith's caravan at the Ridge of Salt."
The Ridge of Salt was a jagged ravine dotted with crumbling monoliths and powdered white minerals. Lightning coiled silently in the storm-clouds above, and Kael's cloak snapped violently in the wind as he crouched among the rocks.
Beside him were three of his most trusted followers: Lys, of course; Dareth, a silent shadow-walker with twin daggers; and Veyla, a young seer whose visions came in riddles.
"They'll pass through in five minutes," Veyla whispered, her eyes rolled back.
Kael turned to Dareth. "No survivors except the girl. She wears silver eyes, according to the spy."
Dareth nodded and vanished into shadow.
Moments later, the caravan rolled into view—six armored wagons, two escort riders, and a sigil banner fluttering red and gold. Kael waited.
Waited.
Now.
He dropped into the ravine.
His landing exploded into a crimson shockwave as he flung blood from his canisters, twisting it into slicing chains. The lead rider screamed, armor cracking as the whip-like blood strands crushed him into the wagon.
Lys threw up illusions—a forest springing out of nowhere, confusing the guards.
Dareth struck from the shadows, blades carving through joints and necks.
Kael surged forward. His scythe cleaved two more guards in one sweep. Blood sprayed into the air—and before it hit the ground, he absorbed it, fueling another sigil burst.
Then he saw her.
A young woman clad in gray with a silver circlet. Her eyes met his—and he froze.
They shimmered like mirrors.
"Who are you?" Kael barked.
She smiled. "I'm the last Warden of the Sigil Vaults."
Before he could react, she raised a small dagger and pressed it to her palm. Silver blood dripped into the air, forming a pattern.
"Bind: Mirror Heart."
The entire ravine shifted. Suddenly Kael saw himself—fighting himself in dozens of mirrored illusions. His scythe met his own technique. His strategies used against him.
"Stop hiding!" he shouted.
But then a familiar voice whispered beside him. "She's not the enemy. She's the key."
The orb pulsed from within his coat.
Kael took a breath. Stepped forward. Dropped his weapon.
The illusions faded.
The girl stood alone.
"I thought you would strike," she said.
"I've spilled enough blood without knowing why," he said. "Tell me what you are."
She knelt and offered the dagger. "My name is Selan. My blood is mirrorborn. I've been waiting for the one who holds the vault's heart."
She looked up. "You're not meant to destroy Eldrinthia. You're meant to judge it."
Kael stared at the dagger.
Then at his hand.
Then at her.
And for the first time in days, he hesitated.