The desert air was different now.
It wasn't just hot—it was heavy, dense, like something unseen was pressing down on them. The broken stone at Lysander's feet shimmered faintly, still warm with traces of power. But it was fading. Whatever had awakened… was already retreating.
Roan knelt beside him. Her brows furrowed, her eyes scanning him carefully like she was trying to figure out whether he was still himself.
"You good?" she asked.
Lysander didn't answer right away.
He just sat there, breathing, staring at his trembling hand. The red shard—his Fragment—had reappeared, pulsing quietly inside his coat pocket. It felt alive again, like something had reconnected.
"I saw her," he muttered. "That woman. The one I keep dreaming about. She called me… the Last Disciple."
Roan's expression didn't change. Not at first. But there was a flicker—like recognition—and then she looked away.
"I know."
Lysander blinked. "You know?"
Mara finally spoke from the shadows. Her voice was cold but steady.
"There are old stories," she said. "About a god who was erased from history. A god whose final disciple would one day return… bringing with him the end of the divine order."
Lysander slowly got to his feet. "And that's supposed to be me?"
No one answered.
He looked between the two women. Roan's silence was too deliberate. Mara's gaze was distant again.
"What aren't you telling me?"
Roan sighed. "Let's move."
"No."
He stepped in front of her. "You knew something was going to happen out here. Didn't you? That stone—this place—it wasn't just random."
She didn't look at him.
That was answer enough.
"I deserve to know," Lysander said, more firmly now. "If I'm caught up in some god's forgotten prophecy, I need to understand what the hell is going on."
Roan finally met his eyes. Her stare was sharp—like a blade that had seen too much war.
"You're not ready," she said. "And if we tell you everything now, you'll end up dead before the sun sets."
Mara added, "There are people who would kill you just for touching that stone."
Lysander took a step back. His head was still spinning from what he saw inside that illusion—or memory—or whatever it was. The woman's face. Her voice. The warmth behind her words, and the weight of her expectations.
"I didn't ask for any of this," he muttered.
Roan's lips twitched. Not a smile—something more bitter.
"Yeah," she said. "Nobody ever does."
---
They moved again—this time in silence. The desert stretched out before them, but now there was a new direction. Mara had sensed something beyond the shifting sands: a structure buried beneath the dunes. She called it The Whispering Vault.
Lysander didn't ask why it had that name.
He didn't want to know.
They reached it by nightfall.
What they found was not a ruin—not in the traditional sense. It wasn't made of crumbling bricks or ancient bones. It was a vast hole in the ground, surrounded by pillars of blackened stone, each etched with the same strange symbols Lysander had seen on the broken slab.
It looked like the mouth of the world.
Cold wind flowed from it, carrying whispers that weren't carried by the wind but came from within. Dozens of voices, layered and overlapping, like ghosts talking to themselves. Some screamed. Some laughed. Others just repeated names. Over and over.
Lysander took one step forward and the ground shifted beneath him.
Roan grabbed his shoulder. "Don't listen too closely," she warned. "The Vault remembers. And it doesn't like being disturbed."
He swallowed hard. "What are we looking for here?"
"A place only a Disciple can open," Mara said quietly.
The three of them approached the edge of the pit. A staircase revealed itself—spiraling downward, cut into the stone. Each step flickered faintly with reddish light as if reacting to Lysander's presence.
He hesitated.
Then began the descent.
---
It took forever to reach the bottom. Or maybe it just felt that way because time seemed wrong inside the Vault. Every step echoed, not with the sound of boots, but with strange murmurs from walls that seemed to breathe.
Lysander reached the last step.
He stood before a massive gate—black and featureless, save for one thing.
A handprint.
He didn't even have to ask.
The shard pulsed inside his coat again. He stepped forward and pressed his hand against the stone.
The gate groaned. The air trembled. And then…
It opened.
Not with fire or divine light—but with silence. Thick, suffocating silence.
Inside was a small chamber. No bigger than a bedroom. But at its center floated something that shimmered and twisted like a flame held in place.
It wasn't made of fire or magic.
It was memory.
Lysander stepped closer. The moment he did, the thing responded. It flickered faster, swirling until it formed a rough shape.
A throne.
On it sat a figure.
The same veiled woman from before.
She opened her eyes, and the chamber went cold.
"You came again," she whispered.
Lysander didn't speak. Couldn't.
"You carry the piece," she said. "But you don't understand it yet."
He found his voice. "Who are you?"
Her lips moved slowly. "I am what remains."
Of what?
Of who?
She stood from the throne and walked toward him. Her feet didn't touch the ground.
"This is not a dream," she said. "This is memory. The Vault keeps fragments of the god who was erased. And now… they're waking."
Lysander took a shaky breath. "Why me?"
"Because you listened. Because you bled. Because you survived."
The shard in his pocket throbbed.
"You are the last," she said, placing a hand over his chest. "And if you fail… he will never return."
And then—
A flash of blinding light.
---
He awoke lying flat on the stone floor. Roan and Mara stood over him, both tense.
"What did you see?" Roan asked.
Lysander sat up slowly.
"I saw her again. She said… this Vault holds the memories of the Fallen God. And now they're waking."
Mara's eyes narrowed. "That's not possible."
Lysander reached into his pocket and pulled out the red shard.
It was no longer pulsing.
It was glowing—brighter than before.
Alive.
Roan took a step back. "Then it's already started."