The land grew colder as Kael and his companions rode toward Myrrak.
Gone were the forests and flame-scarred fields of the west — here, the terrain was dead stone and fractured bone. The wind that screamed across the plains carried no scent, only the distant echo of mourning voices — a whispering tide that never ceased.
"They say the souls of the condemned still roam this land," Nyra muttered, eyes scanning the broken horizon. "Trapped since the first war."
Kael didn't answer. His gaze was fixed on the distant silhouette ahead — Myrrak, the city-crypt once ruled by the Obsidian Lords before it was sealed by divine decree.
Now, it waited — a forgotten ruin, its secrets buried beneath cursed stone.
"We're not here for ghosts," Kael finally said, his voice sharp. "We're here for the shard."
Later that night…
The companions made camp on a high ridge overlooking the outer ruins of Myrrak. The wind was merciless — dry and cold — and it blew through shattered arches like a thousand grieving voices.
Garros sharpened his axe, his arm freshly bandaged from the last skirmish.
"You hear them?" he asked.
Kael nodded. "Every second."
Lyra added softly, "They don't want us here."
"Good," Kael muttered, standing and unsheathing Ashrend. "Let them try to stop us."
Inside the Tomb…
Myrrak was not just ruins. It was a wound — a place where time itself refused to heal.
As they crossed its gates, black mist crept across the floor. The air thickened. Magic here was ancient, warped, and furious. Stone gargoyles watched from above, their mouths sewn shut.
Etched across the wall:
"Here lie the Oathbreakers. May their names never pass the lips of men again."
"This is a place of judgment," Lyra whispered.
"Then let's pass ours," Kael replied.
They descended.
The further they traveled beneath the city, the more oppressive the tomb became.
Walls twisted with runes in a language even Kaelen hadn't taught Kael to read. Lights flickered without flame. Screams echoed without source.
Then — a tremor.
Stone cracked. Shadows burst forth.
The Hollowed Ones attacked — armored corpses once loyal to the Sovereign, now trapped in eternal undeath.
"Ashrend," Kael growled, drawing the blade.
A flash of black lightning surged as Kael leapt into battle. He moved like a storm — each swing of his blade carved crimson arcs through the darkness.
"Crimson Severance!" he roared.
A wave of blood-red force exploded from his sword, cutting through three Hollowed in one strike.
Nyra danced between the others, daggers flashing. Lyra sent divine sigils burning into the horde, while Garros brought his warhammer down like thunder.
But Kael… Kael was a demon unleashed.
"You desecrate the dead," he growled at the approaching Knight of Myrrak — its armor bone-white, its sword curved like a fang.
"I will give you peace," Kael promised.
They clashed.
Ashrend met the cursed blade in a burst of sparks and soulfire.
The fight was brutal — Kael barely dodging a decapitating strike, countering with a spinning slash that severed the knight's arm, then finishing with a downward cleave.
"Crimson Judgment."
The knight shattered into ash.
Silence returned.
At the heart of the tomb, behind a sealed obsidian door, lay the fourth Veilstone Fragment — pulsing violently, locked in a shrine shaped like a weeping angel.
Kael approached.
"There's no turning back after this," Lyra said.
"There never was," he replied.
He reached out.
The shard burned his palm. Darkness surged through his veins — not cold, but hungry.
Kael gritted his teeth, forcing the energy into his soul, binding it.
Another step closer to the Sovereign.
Far away…
In the tower of the Ashen Tribunal, a whisper rippled through the mirror of prophecy.
"He has taken the fourth."
"Then send the Harrowed Choir."
"And if he survives?"
"Then we send her."