The tunnel yawned open, a maw of stone laced with lines of aetherlight that pulsed like the dying heartbeat of a forgotten god. The air grew still. Not quiet—hollow. As if sound itself had been stripped from the world.
Rayon Altiron walked without torch or echo, his steps absorbed into the silence, his shadow swallowed by the gate's ancient hunger.
Behind him, Talia stood still. One hand raised—half a reach, half a farewell—but it never touched his shoulder. Her breath caught in her throat. There were words she wanted to say, perhaps even a command to turn back. But none that would survive his silence.
"None without a Tag have crossed the Solmourne Gate alone," she'd said.
"Then I'll be the first," Rayon had answered.
Now, the light thinned. The corridor narrowed. Symbols etched along the arch began to shimmer, lines bending like molten glass. They wove illusions from the air itself—echoes of the self one wore before crossing.
From the darkness, memory reached for him: Talia's voice became a chain, Bilden's warning a blade. The crowd's cheers curdled into laughter. Glory. Failure. Betrayal.
Each hallucination clawed toward him.
He let them.
Smoke cannot wound what has already burned.
The threshold responded not to strength, but clarity. This was not a gate of stone—it was a crucible of identity.
Then came the Watcher.
They did not step into view; they were simply there, as though space had forgotten to exclude them. Neither male nor female, neither old nor young. A figure enshrouded, their presence defined more by absence—light bent around them, failing to cast shadow.
Rayon stopped. He did not bow. He did not speak.
The Watcher tilted their head, and a voice followed—not from lips, but from around him.
"You carry no banner. No mark. No mask."
Rayon's eyes met theirs. "I don't need them."
"Do you seek to pass?"
"No."
The air vibrated faintly.
"Then why cross?"
"To see," he said. "And to burn what hides."
The Watcher's stillness broke like a ripple across calm water.
"To see… or to take?" they whispered.
"I do not steal. I take back what was buried."
The Watcher stepped aside—not granting permission, but simply no longer obstructing. As if Rayon's path had never included them. As if he had created it with his will alone.
He passed beneath the glyphs, which flickered as though considering his truth… and blinked out.
Beyond the threshold, the tunnel expanded into a vaulted chamber of exposed brass veins and humming crystal arrays. No illusions. No gate. Just silence.
And a single console, old and cold, awaiting input.
Rayon knelt before it—not in reverence, but in calculation. He pulled the courier's map from beneath his cloak. The rotations were encoded, names obscured by cipher—but the patterns were flawed. He saw where the rhythm skipped. Where the truth leaked through.
While they watch the flame—I'll build the fire beneath their feet.
From above, far above, voices stirred behind glass and brass and law.
The Council observed.
"He's not here to pass," said one.
"He's here to rewrite the test," answered another.
A third scoffed, sharp as steel. "Prepare a replacement."
And far below, Rayon Altiron stood in the dark, the map open before him.
Alone, but not lost.
Because Rayon Altiron had shed his masks long ago—and the gate, for all its riddles, had nothing left to take.