The rumbling didn't stop.
As the dust settled from the obliterated Sentinels, the chamber quivered again—this time deeper, darker. It wasn't just an aftershock.
Kael turned his head upward.
"The Spire's reacting," he muttered. "The binding wasn't silent. It called out."
They began moving toward the far end of the chamber where a narrow staircase spiraled downward—deeper than any had dared chart. The ancient stone beneath them grew warm, and faint markings lit up as they passed.
Pyra moved beside Kael, her arms still faintly steaming from the battle. "What was it like?"
Kael glanced down at his hand—the one that had touched the Ashen Root. It still glowed faintly with red and black veins, like lightning trapped beneath his skin.
"Like touching memory," he said. "But not mine."
The staircase narrowed, the air thick with pressure. As they descended, the others followed without question. Trust had long since replaced hesitation.
Isryn was quiet, scanning the walls. "These glyphs… they're Velarynic. Ancient dialect. Very few can read them anymore."
"Can you?" Eren asked.
She nodded. "Enough. They speak of a king beneath the king. A sovereign buried beneath the Ashen throne. One who ruled fire, but was undone by betrayal."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "I know that name. In the vision. The whispers."
Isryn hesitated. "They called him the Crimson Sovereign."
Silence fell.
It wasn't the name that chilled them.
It was the feeling that Kael's path was starting to mirror that ancient ruler's. Too perfectly.
Below, the staircase gave way to an ancient vault. Carved pillars circled a wide circular platform where molten rivers flowed in geometric channels. At the center stood a black pedestal, and atop it—a sword.
Not just any sword.
The metal pulsed with red fire, its hilt wrapped in blackened leather, the blade etched with runes that bled energy.
Kael stepped forward, drawn without resistance.
"Wait—" Isryn started.
But Kael was already moving.
He approached the pedestal, hand hovering above the blade.
"It's calling you," Pyra said.
Kael nodded. "It's part of the Root. The last piece."
He grasped the hilt.
Flame erupted across the chamber. Not wild fire—but a controlled surge. Every rune lit up. The river channels flowed faster. And Kael… changed.
Power coursed through him. His cloak rose from the energy surge, hair whipping violently, eyes glowing brighter with each passing second.
"Crimson Requiem," a voice whispered in the back of his mind. Not his own. Not Kaelen's. Someone… ancient.
He lifted the blade.
A surge of darkness fled outward, breaking the seal on a door at the far end of the vault.
Kael turned, voice low.
"They sealed something behind here. Something even the Sovereign feared."
Darric drew his sword with a gulp. "And we're opening it?"
"We're not running," Kael replied, eyes still locked on the door. "This world's already burning. If there's something worse down here, we finish it before it ever sees the light."
He stepped forward. His companions followed.
As the doors began to creak open, the final glyphs above the vault shimmered to life. Isryn read them aloud:
"Only the cursed may walk this path."
The door split open with a thunderclap.
Beyond it lay a chasm of red mist. And within… shapes stirred.