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Chapter 7: The Gate of Blood and Memory
The mountain path twisted like a scar across the land, carved by ancient hands long forgotten. Elian climbed it alone, each step echoing louder than the last. The Feather of Memory—still warm against his chest—guided him now, pulsing softly, as if alive.
At the summit, the world fell silent.
Before him stood a colossal archway, carved from obsidian and veined with red. Symbols danced across its surface, glowing faintly like old wounds refusing to close. This was it: The Gate of Blood and Memory—the final threshold.
The wind howled suddenly, carrying voices—his own voice, echoing through time.
> "I could have saved her…"
"It was my fault…"
"If only I had stayed—"
The memories surged forward like a wave. He fell to his knees, breath shallow, vision blurred by tears. The pain in his heart—the same pain that had led him this far—now sought to bury him beneath the weight of guilt.
Then a voice called out, not from the past—but from within:
"You were never meant to carry this alone."
From the mist, she appeared—not as a ghost, not as an illusion—but as a memory made flesh. Her eyes held sadness, but also warmth. She knelt beside him, hand brushing his cheek.
"Elian," she whispered. "You must forgive yourself."
He looked into her eyes—eyes that had once made the world feel whole—and realized: she had forgiven him long ago. It was he who could not let go.
The Gate began to tremble, sensing his resolve. The carvings bled light, and the stones hummed with ancient sorrow.
Elian stood, the pain of his heart no longer just suffering—it was clarity. It was strength. It was love remembered, not lost.
He stepped through the Gate.
And the world changed.