The Shadowed Cathedral
At the edge of Tir'Vareth's blighted ruins stood a cathedral carved from obsidian and bone—an ancient structure that had never known sunlight. Its spires pierced the sky like the fangs of a sleeping god. Within, darkness breathed.
Virell waited inside.
He sat upon a throne of mirrors, each one cracked, each one reflecting a version of himself—child, warrior, corpse, beast. His many eyes blinked out of sync. His fingers, long and skeletal, moved in the air as if conducting music only he could hear.
The Pale Choir had failed.
He had heard their final note.
Felt their memories break free like shattered chains.
"She is awake," Virell whispered, voice a chorus of hundreds. "The Heir of the Flame. The Bound Memory... Valeria."
He rose from the throne. Mirrors shattered in his wake, their shards hovering in the air like glass birds. With a flick of his wrist, one floated before him, rippling with smoke.
He gazed through it.
Through realms.
Through memory.
Until he found her.
The Warcamp
Valeria stood before a war table, her eyes locked on a map marked with red glyphs—each representing a known agent of the Abyss. The Pale Choir's sigil had just been crossed out. Two more remained in the western reaches.
The Stormborn Prince approached, flanked by Ardin the Hammer and Nyra, their scout and shadowblade.
"The Choir is silenced, but the men are shaken," the Prince said. "They fear what's next."
Valeria nodded. "So do I. But fear isn't the enemy."
"What is, then?"
She raised her gaze.
> "The man who commands the fear."
Before they could speak more, Nyra's face paled. "Magic surge," she whispered, eyes flashing. "High Arcane. Nearby. Scrying."
Valeria felt it too—a chilling tingle down her spine, like cold breath against her soul.
A mirror of glass formed in the air before them, flickering, spinning—
—and then, Virell appeared.
Half-man, half-void.
His voice bled into their ears like oil through silk.
> "Little heir," he crooned. "You sing well. But do you remember how your song ends?"
The soldiers scrambled for weapons, but Valeria raised a hand. "Let him speak."
"I remember you," she said. "In the last life. You were my jailer."
Virell's smile cracked his mirrored face. "And you were my favorite prisoner."
She stepped forward. "This time, I won't break."
Virell tilted his head, as if amused.
> "Then come and prove it, flameborn. Come to the Sanctuary of Reflections.
Come and face the worst version of yourself."
The mirror shattered.
Preparing for Descent
The warcamp held its breath. Valeria stood in silence for a long moment, the embers under her skin flaring to life again.
"I know where he is," she finally said. "I've been there… in another life."
Ardin grunted. "This feels like a trap."
"Of course it is," Valeria said. "But it's one we can't ignore. He's the Abyss's eye. If we blind it, Kaelen loses his gaze."
The Prince studied her carefully. "And if Virell breaks your mind?"
Valeria looked to the horizon, where clouds gathered like vultures.
"Then you burn my body," she said calmly. "And keep going."
There was no room for fear. Not anymore.
The army began to move—toward the broken west, toward the cathedral where memories bled and truth could kill.
Toward Virell.
And the darkest truth still sleeping inside her.
---
The Sanctuary of Reflections
The Threshold
The journey west took three days—and each mile was more suffocating than the last.
The land was no longer just dead; it had been erased. Forests were petrified mid-bloom, rivers stood frozen in the air like broken glass, and strange echoes drifted across the sky—whispers of forgotten names, faces, laughter long devoured by the void.
By the fourth night, the army halted at the mouth of a narrow ravine—its entrance marked by two towering statues.
One was of a knight in shining armor, head bowed in mourning.
The other, a child holding a burning flower, her eyes gouged out.
Between them: a black gate of polished stone.
It was The Sanctuary of Reflections.
Valeria dismounted, sword strapped across her back, flame humming low at her fingertips.
"Only I enter," she said firmly. "The rest of you hold the line here. If I'm not out by sunrise…"
"You will be," the Stormborn Prince interrupted. "You always are."
He gripped her hand briefly, then let go.
She stepped forward.
And the gate opened.
The Hall of Mirrors
Inside was darkness.
Then light.
Then darkness again.
The walls pulsed—alive, breathing. Every surface reflected her… but not as she was.
Each mirror showed a different Valeria.
One was bloodied and crazed, screaming as fire consumed a city around her.
Another wept as she cradled a lifeless Kaelen in her arms, whispering apologies.
A third stood alone on a throne of ash, crowned in bones, eyes hollow.
And yet another stood tall, cloaked in white, her face gentle… serene… soulless.
"Welcome, heir," Virell's voice echoed from nowhere and everywhere. "Let us see who you really are."
The mirrors began to shatter.
Each broken shard launched toward her, embedding into the walls—and from them, reflections emerged.
Living, moving. Some weeping. Some screaming. Some smiling in false kindness.
All her.
Valeria drew Verdanthis.
The blade burned brighter than ever before.
"I've faced my past," she snarled. "I don't need to fight it again."
Virell's laughter echoed. "Then fight your future."
The Trial of Self
The first to strike was the Queen of Ash—a version of Valeria who had accepted Kaelen's offer and ruled the world with him, razing kingdoms for peace.
Her sword was darker. Her eyes colder.
They clashed—steel on steel, flame on void.
"Why resist him?" the Queen hissed. "With Kaelen, we could've ended all war."
"We would've ended the world."
Steel met steel again. Sparks flew.
The Crowned Corpse attacked next—a Valeria who had failed to protect anyone, carrying the weight of a dead world on her back. She fought with sorrow, dragging chains behind her.
"I couldn't save them!" she screamed. "You'll fail too!"
"I won't," Valeria answered, cutting through her shadow. "Because I remember why I fight."
Last came the Pure Flame—a Valeria who had never loved, never faltered, never felt loss. Cold. Perfect.
She fought without passion, without hesitation. Every move flawless.
"Emotion is weakness," she said. "It clouds judgment."
"No," Valeria whispered, panting, bleeding. "Emotion is why I fight. It's what makes me real."
She drove Verdanthis into the reflection's chest.
And the hall fell silent.
The mirrors dimmed.
She had passed.
But the sanctuary was not yet finished.
The Core
The ground trembled.
And the mirrors parted.
There, in the final chamber, stood Virell—taller now, draped in tendrils of living shadow, a hundred mirror-shards circling his form like moons.
"I've seen every version of you, flameborn," he said. "Every life. Every death. Every failure."
He pointed at her with a hand of black glass.
"You cannot escape yourself."
Valeria's eyes burned with fire.
"I'm not trying to escape."
She raised Verdanthis.
"I'm going to burn through."