The silence was oppressive.
Inside the rebel camp, breath was held like a shared prayer. Only the distant crunch of boots on dead grass—slow, heavy, deliberate—echoed across the ruined clearing.
Kane stood still.
Her amber eyes didn't blink as she watched Gold's figure grow smaller, walking toward the Saints of the Empire like he carried no weight, no fear, no name. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. Behind her, murmurs broke out—nervous, disbelieving.
"He's going out alone?"
"Has he lost his mind?"
"No... he's calling their bluff."
Kane didn't answer. Her gaze never left the boy she knew was her brother.
And for just a flicker of time—four, maybe five seconds—it all slipped away.
The memory came uninvited.
A child's laughter under moonlight. Her hand grasping a smaller one—his—while they ran through the fields beyond the village, chasing fireflies. He tripped. She caught him.
"Don't let go, Kane!"
"I won't, dummy. I never will."
Then darkness. Fire. Screams.
And silence again.
She blinked. The flash vanished like smoke.
Kane exhaled, long and slow. Her voice came quiet, to the rebel beside her. "He doesn't remember me."
The man glanced at her. "Then why go out there?"
"Because even if memory forgets," she said, her voice trembling, "the soul remembers."
Outside, the Saints stopped. The earth seemed to tense underfoot.
Gold stood barely ten paces from them, the wind tugging at his coat, strands of his dark hair brushing across dull, unblinking eyes. Three Saints faced him: Elavar, towering and still; Veylos, with chains slithering like serpents across his back; and Myrae, her blindfold untouched by the wind.
And still, no one spoke.
The rebels held their breath. The world narrowed.
This—this was the moment before lightning struck.
A breath before war.
Elavar stepped forward.
The Saint-Regent's golden armor shimmered in the dull gray light, not from polish, but from the threads of Aether sewn into every plate. Each step he took pressed heat into the ground, as if the land remembered fire.
His eyes were not cruel. Just empty.
"Name," Elavar commanded, voice low and firm. "Speak it."
Gold stood still.
A beat passed. The wind brushed against him, whispering.
"I don't remember," Gold said calmly. "But I know what I've become."
Veylos chuckled. It was a sound like iron scraping bone. "How poetic. A boy with no name dares walk out to face Saints."
Myrae tilted her head slightly, though her blindfold remained in place. "He reeks of divine residue," she murmured. "Something ancient is stitched into his soul."
Gold looked up at them, eyes unreadable. "I didn't come here to die. But I'm not here to run either."
Elavar studied him. "You were touched. That much is clear. An unmarked vessel hosting a contract… Curious." He stepped closer. "Tell me—what did you give up to gain your power?"
Gold's jaw tightened.
Kane, watching from the camp, whispered to herself. "Don't answer."
But Gold did. "A name. A memory. A truth. One piece at a time."
A pause. Even Veylos stilled.
Myrae's voice was almost a breath: "Aether Pactum."
Elavar's gaze hardened. "Impossible. Those pacts were forbidden. Sealed by the Threefold Edict after the War of Unraveling."
"And yet," Gold said, voice quiet but unshaken, "I stand."
Veylos' chains stirred behind him. "Then you are a threat," he growled. "And the Empire extinguishes threats."
"Try," Gold said, raising his hand.
Light bloomed.
But it wasn't light. It was memory—splintered, divine, raw. A phantom circle shimmered behind him, ancient symbols bleeding into the air like burning ink.
Back in the camp, Kane gripped her blade. "Gold—don't—!"
But it was too late. The ground cracked beneath him.
And the battle began.
The earth trembled as Gold unleashed the first echo of his pact.
Aether symbols bloomed in the air behind him — not static, but alive, writhing, reshaping themselves every breath, as if the world struggled to read what was written.
The wind howled, then vanished entirely.
Veylos moved first.
Chains lashed out from his back like vipers, tearing through space toward Gold. Each chain bore sigils that drained light, their very presence warping the world around them.
Gold didn't flinch.
He stepped to the side — one motion — and the ground where he had stood cracked into molten glass.
From the ridge above, Kane's eyes widened. "That was too close," she muttered.
In the command tent, a younger rebel — Ila, barely sixteen — clutched the edge of a table. "We need to help him—!"
"No," Kane said sharply, holding a hand out. Her voice was steady, but her knuckles had turned white. "This fight… is beyond any of us."
Inside her mind, a memory surged—
A flicker, not more than five seconds.
A young boy, scrapped and bruised, stood before a weeping girl.
"You're strong," he had whispered to her, handing over a cracked pendant. "But even strong things break. Don't forget—crying doesn't make you weak."
She had clutched the pendant tight.
Gold… you were always protecting others. Even when you couldn't protect yourself.
Back in the present, another chain missed Gold by inches — but not by chance. His movements were deliberate, measured. He was observing.
Elavar did not move.
He stood at the edge of the battlefield like a statue. Watching. Calculating.
Then he spoke again.
"Saint of Silence. Do you hear it?"
Myrae tilted her head.
"…The echoes," she whispered. "The boy's soul is breaking as he fights. Each step frays what's left."
Gold winced. A nosebleed painted red across his lips. But his eyes remained calm.
Behind him, the pact circle spun faster.
"Wasting time," Veylos growled. "I'll crush him."
"No," Elavar said quietly. "Let us see how far he's willing to go."
Back in the rebel camp, tension snapped like thread.
"Enough," Kane said coldly. She stepped forward. "Ready the evac paths. If he stalls them long enough, we're moving the entire camp through the southern gorge."
"You're not going to help him?" Ila asked, voice sharp with disbelief.
Kane's face twisted into a bitter smile. "He wouldn't let me."
The camp stirred — shadows racing, soldiers prepping in silence, some crying, some staring at the battlefield in awe.
Kane stood atop the ridge now, her eyes never leaving Gold.
Don't die.
The battlefield screamed.
Not with sound — but with silence so sharp it made the bones ache.
Gold stood still, blood dripping from his nose and the corners of his mouth. His right hand trembled, not with fear, but with restraint.
The pact circle behind him shifted again.
A second ring formed, smaller, more jagged, interlocking with the first like the teeth of a predator.
Then came the voice.
"You wish to go deeper?"
A whisper — cold, ancient, familiar.
Inside Gold's mind, the world cracked open. The divine presence — the one he had made the pact with — stirred, vast and infinite, like something older than stars.
"Another offering. Another door."
Gold clenched his fists. "Take it."
"What will you give me, child of ruin?"
"…Take my reflection."
"Accepted."
Snap.
On the battlefield, Gold's left eye bled black.
His breath caught — not in pain, but from the jarring sense of self-loss. For a moment, he didn't recognize his own face — as if the world had forgotten what he looked like and so had he.
Then the air twisted.
His aura exploded — no longer the calm frost of earlier, but jagged, fractured power, a storm of divine entropy. The second pact had unlocked something darker.
A flash — Gold vanished.
And reappeared behind Veylos.
Crack.
Veylos's armored face twisted as Gold's blade — born not of steel but of memory — tore through one of the saint's chains.
Veylos recoiled.
"You… you struck me?"
Gold said nothing. His mouth was closed, but his eyes… they were burning now. Wild. Detached.
He didn't recognize Veylos.
He didn't recognize himself.
On the ridge, Kane's breath hitched.
"…He gave up more."
Her voice was hollow. She could feel it — like a string inside her chest had snapped.
Beside her, the oldest rebel tactician whispered, "He's burning too fast. He's not buying time… he's giving it all."
It was quiet — far too quiet for a mind unraveling.
He stood in a place of fractured mirrors, floating across an infinite black sea. Each shard showed a different version of himself — some laughing, some crying, some stained with blood.
But none… none of them looked back.
One mirror cracked as he stepped closer.
A reflection of a younger Gold appeared — smiling beside someone. A girl. Brown eyes, silver hair.
Kane.
But just as he tried to remember the warmth of that moment — her voice, the scent of the wind — the mirror shattered.
Gone.
Another mirror: his village, burning. The Empire's seal imprinted in the smoke.
Another: the first time he bled and heard the voice in the void.
Another: the pact sigil branding his soul.
He stumbled forward.
"Who am I?" he whispered.
The divine voice echoed again, cold as ice.
"You are what remains."
"Do I have anything left to lose?"
"Only what you forget."
Behind him, the mirrors started falling — shattering one by one into black dust.
Gold fell to his knees, clutching his head.
A whisper reached him — not divine, not cruel. Familiar.
"Gold… you promised me you'd come back."
Kane's voice.
His eyes snapped open.
The sky thundered as Gold returned to the present.
The second circle on his back now glowed like an eclipsed sun, bleeding violet energy. The Saints paused, visibly shaken.
Veylos took a step back.
Elavar raised a hand, motioning Myrae forward.
And in the rebel camp, Kane began running.
Not toward the front.
But toward Gold.
Because she knew: if he activated the third circle—
There'd be nothing left to save.
The Saints halted, a suffocating pressure still hanging over the rebel camp like a blade drawn but not yet swung. The ground around Gold shimmered, distorted by the sheer heat and weight of his aura — a divine contract half-unleashed.
Kane ran. Her boots tore through ash and frost. Voices called after her, but she didn't stop.
"Gold!" she shouted.
He didn't move.
She skidded to a stop, just short of his back. The sigil — glowing violet and spiraling outward — pulsed like a heartbeat. Her eyes stung.
"You're burning yourself," she whispered. "Don't go further. Don't forget more…"
His voice came slow, hollow. "I remember… the smell of our house. The rust on Father's blade. Your humming."
A pause. "Then… nothing."
She stepped forward. "You remembered that much because it wasn't just yours to lose. I carried those pieces too."
Gold didn't turn, but something in his shoulders softened — like a blade slightly lowered.
Behind them, Elavar raised his hand. Saint of Chains, Veylos, surged forward with a flick of his wrists. Chains burst from the sky like metal vipers, shooting toward Gold's throat.
Kane didn't think.
She grabbed Gold's hand and dragged him down.
The chains missed.
He blinked — not at the attack, but at her warmth.
"You'll die if you fight alone," she said. "But if you stand as you…"
"…Then I'll die as myself," he finished.
He rose beside her, eyes glowing, the second circle locked but held.
Kane unsheathed her blade. "Let them come."