The wind howled like a wounded beast as Auren trudged across the frozen stretch of Varnhold's outer reaches. Snow whipped at his cloak, and ice creaked beneath every step. The land here was barren—white, endless, and full of secrets.
He was not alone.
Behind him, Miera followed in silence, her hands tucked into her sleeves. Since the events at the hollow spire, she had spoken little, eyes distant as though haunted by some invisible presence.
"You sure the path is here?" Auren asked, raising his voice over the wind.
Miera nodded. "The old texts say the Shard called Ilven's Eye lies beneath a glacier. Guarded. Forgotten."
Auren swallowed. Every Shard he had touched so far had come with pain and revelation. But something about this one—something about this place—felt… wrong.
They reached the edge of a sheer cliff of ice. Carved into its side was a spiral staircase—unnatural, too precise for any glacier to shape. Light refracted oddly through the frozen walls. Auren stepped forward, but the ice pulsed faintly beneath his feet.
"A trap?" he muttered.
"No," said Miera. "A memory, locked in ice."
As they descended, the cold grew thicker—heavier. Whispers bled from the walls, unintelligible but growing louder. At the base, a chamber opened up, lit by a dull blue glow.
And there it was. Suspended in the center: a floating, jagged Shard—its color darker than night, its hum low and thrumming like a war drum.
As Auren reached out, the glow burst into life. Ice cracked violently along the walls. A spectral figure formed behind the Shard—tall, armored, and eyeless.
"You are not worthy," it spoke, voice like shattering glass.
Auren didn't move. "Maybe not. But I'm not here for your permission."
Then he stepped forward—and everything collapsed into blue.