The Watcher hovered above the broken Spire, motionless yet overpowering. Its presence weighed on Sylas and Alira like a mountain pressing against their chests. The stars dimmed. The very air seemed to curdle around it, laced with silent screams and memories that were not their own.
Sylas clenched his fists, flames of silver light flickering around his arms. "Why now?" he demanded. "We've done nothing wrong."
The Watcher did not speak. Not with words. It imposed. Its will rippled into the world, bending the stones and twisting the skies. A voice echoed in their minds—not one voice, but many, layered like a thousand truths screaming at once.
"Knowledge is a sin only when it exceeds purpose. You drank. You saw. Now you must be measured."
Alira stepped forward, her sword drawn, the runes along its edge glowing in defiance. "We're not pawns in your ancient games."
The Watcher raised a hand.
Reality folded.
The world around them shattered into shards of memory—visions from the past and possible futures. Sylas saw himself murdering innocents, ruling as a tyrant. Then he saw himself saving nations, sacrificing all. Both futures felt equally real.
Alira fell to her knees, gripping her head. "It's... judging us," she gasped. "Not just what we've done—but what we could do."
Sylas snarled. "I won't be broken by illusions!"
He leapt forward, sword blazing, slashing at the Watcher's heart.
The blade passed through smoke.
The Watcher didn't move. But Sylas was thrown back, crashing against the ground, breath stolen from his lungs.
The Watcher finally descended, closer now—its face still a void, but its form growing more defined. Horns like fractured moons spiraled from its head. Robes of dying constellations clung to its frame.
"You are not condemned," it said at last. "But you are not free."
A brand of fire appeared on Sylas's palm—an ancient rune, glowing like molten metal.
"You carry the Mark of Witness. Until the last seal breaks, you shall be watched."
The same rune burned into Alira's skin, just below her collarbone.
The Watcher turned.
"We return when choice becomes fate."
Then, it vanished.
The Spire crumbled.
Sylas and Alira found themselves in the ruins, gasping, the night sky now calm and painfully silent.
"I hate them," Alira whispered.
"Good," Sylas replied, staring at the mark on his hand. "Because we'll need that hate. They won't be the last."
The stars began to shift again—slowly aligning in a strange formation.
A new path had opened. A gate—unseen before—stood in the distance, shimmering with the same energy as the Watcher's mark.
Alira sheathed her sword. "We keep moving. We find the truth. On our terms."
Sylas nodded.
They walked forward—marked, judged, and defiant.