The entrance to Maerith was not a door, nor a gate—but a pulse in the earth, like a heartbeat under skin.
Azael stood at the edge of the Ashscar Wastes with Selene leaning against him, still pale from the poison. Lyka limped beside them, silent since the encounter with her doppelgänger.
No one spoke of the masked figure—the one who called Azael "brother." The air itself seemed to recoil from the memory.
The sky above was no longer sky, but a dome of dark crystal—ash-glass, Lyka called it—fractured and filled with flickering reflections of those who entered.
"I don't like this," Selene muttered.
"Good," Azael replied, stepping forward. "Fear means we're close."
—
As they passed the threshold, the world shifted.
Color bled from the landscape.
The ground whispered their names in voices not their own.
A staircase of obsidian bones spiraled down into a city forgotten by time—Maerith.
It was massive. Cathedrals pierced the ceiling like fangs. Statues of winged figures stared down at them with hollow eyes. Rivers of silver flame flowed through the streets.
And above all, the great palace—twisted, half-submerged in smoke—where the First Flame was chained.
But something was wrong.
It was too quiet.
Lyka halted. "Where are the Remnants? The guardians?"
A sound answered her.
Not a growl. Not a screech.
A whisper—in every direction at once.
"Welcome… home."
—
Suddenly, they were separated.
Azael turned—and Selene was gone.
Lyka's scream echoed and cut off.
Then darkness.
Complete and suffocating.
When light returned, Azael stood alone—in a replica of his childhood village. Snow fell. The houses were whole. Smoke curled from chimneys.
But it was all wrong.
His mother stood by the frozen river, humming that old lullaby.
"Mom?" he breathed.
She turned—but her eyes bled silver fire.
"You shouldn't have come here, Azael."
He stepped back. "This isn't real."
She smiled, too wide. "It is now."
Flames erupted around him—walls of memory twisted into traps.
—
Meanwhile, Selene awoke inside a cathedral of bones.
She stood before a massive mirror—but her reflection didn't move.
Instead, it smiled—and whispered, "You can't protect him forever."
Behind her, the bones began to crawl.
—
Lyka found herself in a chamber of smoke—face to face with her other self. The unburned version.
"You should've died," her double said. "You were the mistake."
And then she lunged.
—
Back in the illusion, Azael screamed, flames lashing out. The fake village burned—but refused to fall. His "mother" walked through fire, unharmed.
Then a voice broke through.
"ENOUGH."
It shattered the illusion like glass.
Azael dropped to his knees—gasping—and looked up.
The chained god stood before him.
Tall.
Burning.
Terrified.
"You should not have come, Azael," the First Flame said. "Because now… they know you're here."
Azael staggered up. "I came for answers."
The god's voice dropped. "Then take this."
A spark leapt from his chest—into Azael's.
Azael screamed. Visions surged through him:
—A map of seven crowns.
—The face of his father.
—A sword, broken in two.
—And the throne of fate—shattered, by his own hand.
When it ended, Azael was trembling.
"What was that?"
The First Flame's chains tightened with a groan. "Your truth."
Then he looked past Azael—eyes widening in horror.
"She followed you."
The shadows thickened.
From them stepped a girl.
Not Selene. Not Lyka. Not the echoes.
Her smile was stitched shut with silver thread. Her eyes were missing.
But she moved like a dancer.
And the First Flame whispered her name like a death sentence:
"The Pale Weaver."
She lifted her hand—and the chained god screamed.
The walls trembled.
Maerith began to collapse.
Azael turned to run—but the Pale Weaver was already beside him.
She reached for his chest.
And everything went dark.
Stay tuned...