The Shattered Sanctum lies beneath Vyrnhold's spires, a cavernous crypt of blackstone and bone. Its walls are embedded with fragments of shattered mirrors that glint like broken teeth, reflecting slivers of violet light from the runes that pulse overhead. The air is cold, heavy with the scent of decay and old blood, a bitter tang that clings to my throat, my lungs.The wards here are a vice, tighter than ever, choking my fire to a faint ember in my chest. It's a spark that fights to breathe, to burn, against the suffocating weight of this place. I stand at the sanctum's threshold, my crimson cloak tattered, stained with ash and blood. My emberstone dagger is a warm pulse against my palm, its glow a frail rebellion against the oppressive gloom that presses in from all sides.The Ritual of Echoes waits within, a trial where the Hollowed Relic's mirror will summon echoes of our past—our regrets, our failures, our truths. These echoes will manifest as wraiths, as visions, as blades to cut us down. My visions claw at me, relentless—relics pulsing, blood spilling, Zorak's sigil burning, a scream that might be mine, a pyre consuming all.
I grip my dagger tighter, my knuckles whitening, my heart a drumbeat of dread that echoes in my bones, louder than the sanctum's low hum.That hum is a vibration that rattles my teeth, my soul.
Vyrnhold is a beast, and this ritual is its claws, sharp and cruel. It's ready to tear open wounds I've buried deep, to rip me apart from the inside out.The Trial of Essence left me raw, my mind heavy with the Veil's assault. My shoulder throbs from the menagerie's spike, and my lips still taste of blood from the psychic pulses that nearly broke me. Zorak Draven's presence lingers like a brand—his hand steadying me in the Veil's Spire, his voice rough, "Breathe, Syris," his eyes raw, wounded, a crack in his storm that pulls at me.It's a tide I can't outrun, a spark I can't douse. I saw his past in the Veil's vision, a boy bound by a bone-masked emissary, his sigil carved in blood, a curse that ties him to the relic, to Vyrnhold, to me. That truth weighs on me, heavy as the sanctum's air, sharp as the mirrors that surround us.I was a priestess of the Emberheart temple, trained to wield flame and prayer, to channel the goddess's light. I wasn't meant to face shadows, not to burn for a man whose sigil whispers in blood, whose myth is a blade at my heart. The temple cast me out, branded me heretic, their rejection a wound that festers, as raw as the day I fled across the Wastes.My cloak was torn, my boots caked with ash, my faith fraying with every step, driven by visions of a relic, a scream, Zorak bleeding. Vyrnhold is where they led, this academy of ruin, where answers are buried in blood and darkness. The Covenant's secrets pulse like wounds, their bone-masked emissaries watching, waiting.The Veil's whisper still echoes: The relic is yours, or you are nothing. I'm still burning, a spark in a void. But the Ritual of Echoes threatens to snuff me out, to drag me into the abyss of my past, my guilt, my failures.The sanctum's threshold is a jagged arch of blackstone, carved with runes that bleed violet light. Their glow casts my shadow long and broken, a fractured reflection of the girl I was, the priestess I can't be. Initiates cluster around me, their faces pale, their eyes haunted, their breaths shallow in the cold, damp air.Taryn Emberly stands close, her spectral raven perched on her shoulder. Its talons draw beads of blood that stain her gray tunic, a stark contrast to her pale, freckled skin. Her runestone hums faintly, clutched in her steady hands, its light a soft blue glow that flickers like a dying star.Her eyes are sharp, a quiet fire that burns brighter since the Veil's Spire, where we faced the wraiths together. Her resolve was a lifeline I clung to. "Syris," she whispers, her voice low, trembling, barely audible over the sanctum's hum, "what if the echoes… what if they're too much?"Her question mirrors my own fear, a cold knot in my gut that tightens with every breath. My throat constricts, my visions flaring—a relic glowing, a scream, Zorak's sigil burning, my fire consuming all. I swallow hard, the taste of blood lingering, and meet her gaze, steady despite the dread that coils inside me like a serpent."Then we face them anyway," I murmur, my voice raw, a promise as much to myself as to her. "We've survived this far. We'll survive this too."Her lips twitch, a fragile smile that doesn't reach her wide, haunted eyes. Her nod is a vow, a bond forged in blood and defiance that warms my chest. It's a spark of kinship I didn't expect to need, a tether in this hell of shadows and ruin.Her raven shifts, its void-like eyes meeting mine. I see a flicker of something in its gaze—understanding, or warning. It's a creature bound to Taryn as fiercely as my fire is bound to me, a tether to her magic, her will, her survival.My gaze drifts, snagging on Zorak Draven near the sanctum's center. His leather coat is scarred, patched with old wounds, his dagger twirling lazily in his hand—a predator at rest, a storm waiting to break. His dark hair falls into his eyes, a curtain of shadow that frames his sharp jaw.His smirk is a blade, sharp and untamed, a challenge to the world, to Vyrnhold, to me. But it's his gaze—dark, heavy, possessive—that catches me, holds me, a jolt of heat like fire meeting tinder, a spark that burns despite the wards, despite my will.In the Veil's Spire, he guarded me, his dagger flashing, his sigil pulsing, his voice raw, desperate. Now, his eyes are unyielding, like he's claiming a piece of me I haven't offered, a piece I'm not sure I can keep from him. My fire flares, unbidden, dangerous, a tide I can't outrun.Whispers trail him—Draven killed a wraith with his bare hands; his sigil is alive, a curse that speaks in blood—and my stomach twists. The boy's words from the Labyrinth echo: It speaks to him. His sigil, a jagged scar on his wrist, pulses faintly, a violet glow that matches the sanctum's runes.My visions surge—Zorak bleeding, his sigil burning, the relic calling, my fire a pyre. I force my eyes away, my fingers digging into my dagger's hilt, my knuckles white. He's chaos, a storm that could wreck me, and I've seen enough wreckage.My mother's death, her scream as the Wastes consumed her; my temple's betrayal, their prayers turning to scorn; my own fraying faith, a threadbare cloak I can't mend—they're scars I carry, wounds I can't heal. But my heart lingers on him, on the crack in his smirk, the pain I glimpsed when he steadied me.It's a wound that mirrors my own, a shadow that calls to me in ways I can't name, ways I don't want to name. I'm a priestess, or I was, and I shouldn't burn for him, shouldn't feel this pull. But Vyrnhold doesn't care for shoulds, and neither does my fire.Others prick at my senses, their presence like thorns under my skin, sharp and unyielding. Kaelith Vorne leans against a mirror shard, their dark braids blending with the gloom. Their smirk is too smooth, too knowing, like they've already seen the ritual's end, already played this game and won.Their shadow-magic curls at their feet, restless, alive, a dark tide that shifts with their mood. Their eyes catch mine, a chill that feels like they're peeling back my secrets, weighing my worth in a game I don't understand.Their taunt in the Veil's Spire—"Trouble finds you, Vaelor"—rings in my ears, a sly edge to their words that I can't decipher. Their glance at Zorak is sharp, calculating, like they know his curse, his myth, like they're waiting for him to break, to reveal the truth of his sigil.I don't trust them, not their sly smile, not their calm that feels like a trap, not the way they watch me. It's like I'm a piece on a board, a pawn in a scheme I can't see. Riven Kade stands apart, his pale face a mask, his telepathic aura a faint hum that pricks my skin, like static before lightning, a storm waiting to break.His hand rests on his blade, a reflex that speaks of scars I can't see, of battles fought in shadows. His gray eyes flick to the sanctum's center, where the relic-forged mirror waits, as if he senses something my visions echo—a relic, a shadow, a truth that binds us all.Elyse Marrow paces nearby, her sea-green hair damp with sweat, her water-orbits swirling erratically in her palms. Their light is dim, flickering, like her laugh—brittle, forced, a shield against the dread that coils in her wide, fearful eyes.Her arm is bandaged, her bravado cracking since the Veil's Spire. Her muttered words—"I'm fine"—are a lie, a desperate plea, because she's breaking, just as I am, under Vyrnhold's weight, under the weight of our pasts.Whispers ripple through the crowd, fragments of rumors that chill my blood, sinking into my bones like frost. The Covenant's emissaries watch from the spires, their sigils pulsing, guarding secrets tied to the Hollowed Relic, to the Veil's fraying wards.A boy mutters about the Ritual of Echoes: "The mirror shows your worst regrets, makes them real—wraiths, blades, anything to break you." Another whispers about the relic's history, how it was forged in blood, bound to Vyrnhold by the Covenant, a key to the Veil, a key to ruin.My visions pulse, relentless, and I wonder what regrets I'll face, what truths the mirror will drag into the light. What wraiths will wear the faces of those I've failed—my mother, the High Matron, myself? The boy's words about Zorak's sigil linger—It's alive, bound to the relic—and I glance at him again.His smirk is unchanged, but my skin prickles, a puzzle tying his curse, Kaelith's motives, and the relic's call to my own cursed visions. It's a thread I can't untangle, a shadow I can't outrun.Commander Lirien Thorn strides into the sanctum, her wyrm Vyrath's growl a low thunder. Its scales gleam like oil in the rune-light, its eyes burning coals that sear my resolve, its claws raking the stone with a screech that sets my teeth on edge.Her silver hair is braided tight, her crescent blade sheathed but heavy with intent, a silent threat that looms like the sanctum itself. Her presence is a weight, a blade against my spine, and her frost-cold eyes sweep over us, judging, discarding, as if we're already ash, already nothing."The Ritual of Echoes begins," she says, her voice steel, cutting through the murmurs. Each word is a stone that sinks in my chest, heavy, unyielding. "Step before the mirror. Face your echoes, your regrets, or let them claim you."She continues, her tone unyielding. "The Covenant demands truth, and the weak have no place here." Her gaze lingers on Zorak, on me, a flicker of something—respect, or suspicion—that makes my skin prickle, a chill that seeps into my bones.My fire stirs, weak but stubborn, a spark that fights the wards. I nod to Taryn, my jaw clenching, my shoulder throbbing with every movement. We step into the sanctum, the mirrors reflecting our fractured forms, the relic-forged mirror at the center glowing faintly—a call I can't ignore, a blade I can't escape.The Shattered Sanctum is a nightmare, its blackstone floor slick with damp. Its walls are a mosaic of shattered mirrors that reflect slivers of my face, my cloak, my fear, a thousand fractured pieces that mock the girl I was, the priestess I can't be.The relic-forged mirror stands at the center, a towering slab of obsidian and bone. Its surface ripples like liquid shadow, its glow a faint violet that pulses in time with my heartbeat, with the runes, with the relic's whisper in my mind.The air is cold, suffocating, smelling of rot and magic, a bitter tang that coats my throat, my lungs. The wards are a vice, choking my fire to a faint ember, a spark that fights to breathe, to burn, against the oppressive weight that presses in from all sides.Each step is a battle, my boots slipping on the slick stone, my shoulder stinging. My senses strain against the dark, the hum of the mirror a vibration in my bones, a warning that grows louder, sharper, with every step.My visions pulse—relics glowing, blood spilling, Zorak's sigil burning, my fire a pyre—and I grit my teeth, forcing them back. Losing myself here means losing everything, means becoming nothing, just as the Covenant warns.The mirror's glow intensifies, a psychic pulse hitting, the relic's whisper a scream in my mind: Face your echoes, or break. My past surges, vivid, relentless, dragging me under—I'm in the Emberheart temple, the High Matron looming over me, her eyes cold, her prayer a curse, "You are no daughter of flame."The other priestesses turn away, their silence a betrayal, their scorn a blade that cuts deeper than any steel. My fire flares, unbidden, a spark that burns the altar, a flame that marks me heretic, that drives me into the Wastes, into Vyrnhold, into this nightmare.My mother appears, her scream echoing as the Wastes consume her, her hand reaching for me, her eyes wide with terror. She's pleading for a salvation I couldn't give, a failure that haunts me, that weighs on me, heavier than the sanctum's air.I stagger, blood dripping from my nose, warm and coppery on my lips, my dagger slipping in my trembling hand. My knees buckle against the cold stone, the mirror's glow searing my vision, its scream splitting my mind.Taryn's hand brushes mine, her raven screeching, its void-like eyes glinting, its wings beating the air—a frantic rhythm that mirrors my racing heart. Her voice is fierce, a lifeline in the dark, cutting through the mirror's scream. "Syris, stay with me," she says, her tone steady despite the fear in her wide eyes.Her runestone glows brighter, a soft blue light that pushes back the shadows, if only for a moment. I nod, my breath ragged, my chest heaving, and grip my dagger tighter, the emberstone's glow a faint pulse, a tether to my will, my fire, my resolve.Her resolve steadies me, a spark of trust that burns brighter, a bond I didn't expect to need. It's a vow that we'll survive this, together, no matter what the mirror shows us.The echo shifts, a wraith manifesting from the mirror, its form a twisted reflection of the High Matron. Its eyes are voids, its voice a hiss that echoes her scorn: You are nothing, heretic. It lunges, its claws dripping ichor, black as night.I dodge, my heart slamming against my ribs, my boots slipping on the slick stone. I slash with my dagger, fire sparking in my veins, weak but fierce, a defiant ember that refuses to die.The emberstone glows, a faint beacon in the gloom, and the wraith shrieks, its form fraying like smoke. But another takes its place, this one wearing my mother's face, her scream a knife in my mind, her claws reaching for me—a failure I can't escape, a guilt that cuts deeper than any blade.I freeze, my dagger trembling, my breath a gasp, my chest heaving. Taryn's runestone flares, her raven diving, its claws raking the wraith's form, fraying it into ash. "Syris, fight!" she shouts, her voice fierce, a command, a plea.I thrust my dagger, fire surging, a spark that defies the wards, a flame that burns for my mother, for myself. It's for the girl I was before Vyrnhold tried to break me. The wraith dissolves into ash, its scream fading, but the mirror's glow intensifies, its whisper a hiss in my mind.Zorak appears, his dagger a blur as he cuts through another wraith, this one his own echo. It's a boy with his face, his sigil freshly carved, blood dripping from his wrist, a bone-masked emissary looming over him, their voice a hiss, "You are bound, Draven."His scream echoes, raw, desperate, as the wraith lunges, ichor splattering his coat, staining the stone black. His eyes find me, dark, possessive, and my chest tightens, a jolt of heat I can't name, like fire meeting tinder, a spark that burns despite the wards, despite my will."Stay close, priestess," he growls, his voice low, rough, stepping between me and the shadows. His body is a wall of defiance, his blade an extension of his will, his fury.His tone is commanding, possessive, and it sparks fury in me, sharp and bright, a fire that flares against his arrogance, his need to claim, to control. I yank my arm free when he reaches for me, my fire surging, a defiant spark that lights the sanctum, casting our shadows long and jagged against the mirror shards."I don't need saving, Draven," I snap, my voice a blade, cutting through his storm. My eyes blaze with a fire I can't suppress, won't suppress, not for him, not for anyone.His smirk returns, strained, and for a heartbeat, I see something—pain, or fear, a crack in his myth, his armor, a wound that mirrors my own. My heart lurches, traitor to my resolve, because that crack calls to me, a shadow I recognize, a pain I can't ignore.His sigil pulses, brighter now, a violet glow that matches the mirror's. My visions flare—Zorak bleeding, his sigil burning, the relic calling, my fire a pyre.Kaelith slips from the dark, their blade dripping ichor, their shadow-magic coiling like a serpent, restless, alive, a dark tide that moves with their will. "Your echoes are loud, Vaelor," they say, their voice smooth as oil, their eyes glinting with something—amusement, or hunger, a predator's gaze that makes my skin crawl.They strike a wraith, their movements precise, fluid, a dance of shadow and steel. But their glance at Zorak is sharp, calculating, like they're weighing his curse, his myth, like they're waiting for him to break, to reveal the truth of his sigil.I don't trust them, not their sly smile, not their calm that feels like a trap, not the way they watch me. It's like I'm a piece in a game, a pawn in a scheme I can't see.Riven appears next, his telepathy a silent force that staggers a wraith, its form fraying under the weight of his mind. His pale face is unreadable, his gray eyes like storms, heavy with secrets.His gaze weighs on me, a silent pressure, and I wonder what he sees, what truths he pulls from the mirror, what shadows he guards in his own fractured mind.Elyse stumbles into the fray, her water-orbits faltering, a wraith with her own face lunging, its voice a scream of self-doubt, "You're weak, you'll fail." Blood wells bright against her pale skin, a stark contrast to her sea-green hair.She laughs, brittle, desperate, but her hands shake, her bravado cracking like thin ice. Her fear is raw, real, a mirror to my own.The sanctum trembles, a mirror shard overhead shattering in a burst of violet light, shards raining down like broken stars, sharp and glinting. I duck, my cloak catching another tear, my shoulder screaming with pain.The relic's whisper grows louder, a scream that burrows into my mind: Claim me, or break. My visions surge, vivid, relentless—I'm holding the Hollowed Relic, its surface slick with blood, Zorak's sigil burning, his scream echoing, my fire a pyre consuming all.Vyrnhold crumbles into ash and ruin, the Veil fraying, wraiths pouring through, their claws reaching for me, for him, for everything. I collapse, blood streaming from my nose, pooling in my mouth, my dagger clattering against the stone, my breath a gasp, my chest heaving.Taryn's raven screeches, its wings beating the air, her runestone glowing brighter. She kneels beside me, her hands steady, her voice fierce. "Syris, come back," she says, her tone a command, a plea.I cling to it, my fire flickering, a spark that defies the relic, a flame that burns for her, for our vow, for survival. Zorak's shout is raw, his dagger flashing as he guards me, his sigil pulsing, brighter now, like it's alive, answering the relic's call.It's a connection I can't ignore, can't escape. Kaelith's shadows coil, their smirk gone, their eyes narrowed with focus, a rare crack in their calm. Riven's telepathy hums, his jaw clenched, his gaze heavy, a storm that presses against my mind.Elyse's water-orbits dim, her scream cut short, her fear visceral, a cry that echoes in my chest, a mirror to my own terror.The floor cracks, a trap triggered by the mirror's collapse, and spikes erupt, blackstone spears glinting with malice, sharp and cruel. They rise from the stone with a grinding screech that sets my teeth on edge.I dive, pulling Taryn with me, my cloak tearing further, pain flaring in my shoulder, a white-hot agony that makes my vision swim. Zorak curses, his dagger slashing a spike, the metal sparking against stone, his eyes on me, fierce, unyielding, a storm that refuses to break."Move, Syris!" he roars, his voice raw, desperate, and I scramble to my feet, my heart racing. My fire flickers, a faint ember that fights to burn, to survive.Kaelith dances through the spikes, their shadows shielding them, a dark tide that moves with their will. But their glance at Riven is too quick, too pointed, like they're hiding something, a secret that ties them to the relic, to the Veil.Riven's telepathy shatters a spike, the stone exploding in a shower of fragments. His face is strained, his pale skin slick with sweat, his aura a storm that hums in my bones.Elyse's water-orbits deflect another spike, their light dim, flickering. Her eyes are wide with terror, her bravado gone, her scream a raw, desperate sound that cuts through the chaos, a cry for survival, for mercy, that Vyrnhold will never give.A final psychic pulse hits, the relic's voice a scream that splits my mind: You are bound, as he is bound. My visions surge, vivid, relentless—Zorak's sigil burning, the relic in my hands, its surface slick with blood, my fire a pyre, Vyrnhold crumbling, the Veil fraying, wraiths pouring through.Their claws reach for me, for him, for everything. I see our connection, a thread of blood and fire, the relic binding us, our fates intertwined, our curses one. I stagger, blood pooling in my mouth, my dagger trembling, my breath a gasp, my chest heaving.Zorak's hand steadies me, his touch warm, too close, his eyes raw, wounded, a crack in his myth that makes my chest ache, my fire flare. "Breathe, Syris," he murmurs, his voice rough, low, a tether in the dark.I pull away, my dagger trembling, but his touch lingers, a spark I can't douse, a tide I can't outrun. Taryn's raven dives, its claws raking the air, her runestone glowing, her eyes fierce, a quiet fire that burns for me, for us.Kaelith's shadows coil, their calm a mask, their eyes glinting with something—knowledge, or hunger. Riven's telepathy hums, his gaze heavy, a storm that presses against my mind.Elyse's water-orbits dim, her fear raw, her scream a whisper now, a plea for survival.Lirien strides into the sanctum, Vyrath's roar shaking the cavern, its scales glinting, its claws raking the stone. Its growl is a thunder that vibrates in my bones. Her crescent blade cleaves the air, a sharp arc of steel that cuts through the shadows, and the remaining wraiths scatter, their screams fading into the dark."Enough!" she commands, her voice steel, her eyes like frost, cutting through us—Zorak's clenched jaw, his dagger still raised, blood dripping from his arm; Taryn's trembling resolve, her raven perched, bloodied but defiant.She looks at Kaelith's sly calm, their shadows coiling, restless; Riven's silent weight, his telepathy a faint hum, his pale face slick with sweat; Elyse's faltering grin, her arm bleeding, her bravado shattered; my own unsteady fire, my dagger trembling, my breath ragged, blood staining my lips, my cloak."You live," she says, her voice heavy, a judgment, a warning. Her gaze lingers on Zorak, on me, a flicker of something—respect, or doubt—that makes my blood run cold, my skin prickle. "For now."The relic's whisper pulses, a call I can't ignore, its truth closer, sharper, tied to Zorak's sigil, to my visions, to the Veil. It's a connection that binds us, a thread I can't untangle, a shadow I can't outrun.I rise, my legs unsteady, my shoulder stinging, my dagger heavy in my hand, my cloak tattered, stained with ash and blood. Taryn meets my eyes, her nod a quiet strength, a vow we'll keep fighting, a bond forged in blood and fire, a spark that burns brighter in the dark.Zorak's gaze burns into me, dark, possessive, a fire I can't control, a tide I can't outrun, a storm that threatens to drown me. Kaelith's smirk, Riven's silence, Elyse's cracked bravado, Lirien's cold command—they're pieces of a puzzle I don't understand.They're shadows in a game I didn't choose, a game where the stakes are my soul, my fire, my survival. Zorak's sigil, his myth, his brokenness—they're a blade at my heart, tempting me to fall, to burn, to break.Vyrnhold is a beast, and the Ritual of Echoes has only sharpened its claws, honed its hunger. I'm not ready, but I'm still burning, a spark in the dark, a flame that refuses to die, and that's enough. For now.