The battlefield lay quiet now. Too quiet.
The sky no longer wept fire. The rift above had sealed, leaving behind nothing but an uneasy stillness that pressed down like a funeral shroud. The grass, where it still existed, was scorched black. Ruins of ancient stone and shattered wards jutted from the earth like the bones of a dying god.
Liora stood alone.
Or maybe she was simply the only one left standing.
Her body trembled—not from pain, but from the aftershock of channeling too much of the soul-fusion. The ghosts inside her had quieted, but she could feel them: a thousand whispers buried beneath her ribs, murmuring fragments of memory and grief. Echoes not yet ready to be released. Some never would be.
She took one step forward and nearly collapsed.
Iskar caught her.
He looked different now—older, even though not a single hour had passed. His armor was broken at the seams, blade chipped down to a jagged stub. But his eyes were wide, haunted. Focused only on her.
"I thought you were dead," he breathed.
Liora didn't answer. She looked back at the smoldering crater where Mother Ivenna had stood. "I might still be."
"Don't say that."
"I had to burn part of myself to do it. The cost—" She touched her chest, where the glyphs still glowed faintly. "It's not over."
Iskar looked around. "The others?"
A pause.
Liora shook her head slowly.
Vessa's body was gone. Swallowed in a cascade collapse.
Tarn lay folded under a crushed monument, crushed before he could even scream. Only his medallion remained, swinging gently in the breeze like a pendulum marking time.
And Thalia…
Liora couldn't speak. She just closed her eyes.
Iskar did too. For a moment, they stood in silence—mourning not just friends, but the pieces of themselves that had died with them.
Then the wind shifted.
A low humming sound, like bees under ice, began to rise from the east. It started small—barely audible—but grew rapidly, swelling into a droning cacophony that made Liora's vision blur.
"Another one?" Iskar tensed.
"No." Liora turned. "Not a demon. Something worse."
From the mist strode a line of robed figures—tall, pale, their faces covered with bone-etched masks. Thirteen in total. Each carried a curved staff, carved from wood that pulsed like living flesh.
The White Circle had returned.
No longer hiding behind whispers or distant orders. They had come in person.
One of them stepped forward, removing his mask.
Liora recognized him instantly.
"Father," she whispered.
His face was older now, worn and gaunt—but unmistakable. The same frost in the eyes, the same cruel lines around the mouth. Alric's twin. The brother who had vanished into the Circle's ranks decades ago. The one she'd never met, only heard nightmares about.
"Daughter," he said, voice smooth as oil. "You've done more than we ever hoped."
Iskar drew what was left of his blade. "Get away from her."
"Careful, whelp," the man said. "We're not here to fight. The opposite, in fact."
Liora narrowed her eyes. "Then why?"
"To thank you," he said. "You've opened what centuries of sacrifice could not. The bloodline barrier is broken. The soulforge you've become—imperfect, yes, but functional. You've unlocked the trial."
Her stomach dropped. "The trial?"
"Yes." He smiled, and it did not reach his eyes. "The Veil is not the end. It is merely the gate."
He gestured behind him.
From the Circle's ranks, they dragged a bound figure—small, limp, head covered by a torn white sack. They tossed the figure forward. It hit the ground with a pained grunt.
Liora moved.
She reached the captive, tore the sack off—
And nearly screamed.
Aelric.
The boy from the hidden sanctuary. Her half-brother. The seer.
His face was battered, one eye swollen shut. But he grinned when he saw her.
"They're lying," he whispered. "They want you to finish the gate. Don't let them. They'll use your soul as the key."
The Circle members stepped forward, staves humming.
"You've already said goodbye to too much," her father said. "Why not finish what you've started? Enter the Sanctum. Ascend. Or are you too broken to see it through?"
Liora looked back at the bodies.
At the world she had torn apart.
At the boy clinging to life.
And then she looked inward—past the pain, past the voices—and found the single, seething truth:
She wasn't broken.
She was changing.
"I won't be your key," she said. "And I won't be your weapon."
Her father sneered. "Then die like a disappointment."
Iskar hurled his broken blade forward.
It embedded itself in the man's shoulder.
All hell broke loose.