The city was on fire—not with flame, but with light.
From the center of the Capital, a vast pillar of radiant energy surged skyward, splitting the heavens with blinding brilliance. It pulsed like a heartbeat, slow and rhythmic, as though the city itself had been awakened from a long and bitter slumber.
Sylas and Alira stood at the edge of the Temple's steps, staring across rooftops toward the rising light. It came from beneath the palace—directly over the ruins known as the Throne's Shadow. A place whispered of in fear, abandoned for centuries.
"It's calling you," Alira said. "That light… it's not just magic. It's memory. Yours."
Sylas nodded slowly. "The Gate of Echoes. The Oracle said it would appear. I didn't think it would be this fast."
The streets below were in chaos. Citizens fled the glowing epicenter, while mages from the royal court attempted to contain the energy. But none of them understood. This wasn't just a rupture in magical balance—it was a tear in reality itself. A thinning of the veil.
Sylas could already feel the pull. The Heart within his chest hummed, echoing the light's rhythm. He didn't know what waited beyond that Gate, only that it would change everything.
"We need to get inside before the court seals the area," he said, voice firm.
Alira's grip tightened on her blade. "Let them try to stop us."
They moved like shadows, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, dodging patrols and wards hastily erected by the palace guards. By the time they reached the perimeter of the Throne's Shadow, the light had condensed into a dome, translucent and pulsating. And within it—at the very center—stood a stone archway, half-buried in rubble.
Carved into its ancient frame were symbols older than any language still spoken. But Sylas could read them, not with sight, but instinct.
"Is that it?" Alira asked.
Sylas didn't answer. He stepped forward, passing through the light without resistance. The air grew still. Warm. Familiar.
As he approached the archway, the carvings ignited with soft blue fire. The stone trembled.
And then—his vision blurred.
He was no longer standing in the ruins.
He was somewhere else.
A black sky stretched above him, pierced by shifting stars that spiraled and danced like living eyes. The world beneath his feet was cracked glass, and far on the horizon, a tower floated in the void, chained to nothing, glowing with the same blue fire.
This was not a vision.
This was the Spiral Path.
"Sylas?" Alira's voice was distant, like it came through water.
He turned—and saw her standing just behind him, though her form shimmered.
"You crossed with me," he said.
"Of course," she replied, frowning. "I'm not letting you do this alone."
Before he could respond, a presence stirred.
From the shadows beneath the tower, a figure emerged—robed in white and gold, faceless, yet radiating power.
"You who bear the Heart," the being said, "do you remember what you were?"
Sylas hesitated. "No… but I'm starting to."
The figure raised a hand, and from the void, memories surged like a tide. A battle on another world. Wings made of starlight. A name—Kael'Tharion—whispered by dying gods.
"You fell to preserve the weave," the figure said. "And now you return to unmake it."
Sylas's knees buckled. The pressure in this realm was immense. His mortal shell strained to contain what stirred within him.
Alira stepped in front of him, defiant. "He didn't come to unmake anything. He came to stop the cycle. To break free."
The faceless being tilted its head. "Then prove it. Pass through the Gate. Face what remains of yourself. If you survive… you will reclaim what was lost."
The tower's doors opened.
Inside waited judgment.
Sylas rose to his feet, breath shaking. "Come with me?"
Alira nodded. "To the end."
Together, they walked toward the tower, into the unknown.
And behind them, the Gate of Echoes closed, sealing the path from the mortal world.
Only silence remained.