Darkness swallowed everything.No sound. No light. No breath.Clara’s hand shot out instinctively, grasping at the empty air — and found Michael’s fingers. Warm. Steady. Alive.“Michael?” Her voice was barely a whisper, trembling in the void.“I’m here,” he answered, his tone calm but strained. “Stay close.”Somewhere behind them, Alden’s voice cut through the emptiness, sharp as steel. “What did you do? Where are we?”Michael exhaled. “Inside the Gate.”“The Gate?” Clara echoed, her pulse racing.“Yes,” he said quietly. “We didn’t open it. It opened for us.”A faint vibration rippled through the ground — a heartbeat beneath their feet. The darkness shimmered, like mist stirred by unseen currents. Then, one by one, small motes of blue light appeared in the air around them, floating like fireflies.The temple had changed. The towering walls now seemed endless, fading into infinity. The pedestal was gone. In its place lay a vast chasm — and above it, suspended in midair, hung two relics

By the time they reached Falwen, dusk had already set the sky aflame.The city sat upon layered terraces carved into the mountainside — golden spires and white stone streets gleaming faintly beneath the descending light. From afar, it looked untouched by ruin or war, yet as they drew near, the illusion began to crack.Whispers filled the air like dust — unshaped, uneasy. Market stalls stood half-empty, shutters drawn though the wind was still mild. A group of guards passed, their armor dulled, eyes restless, as though searching for something only they could sense.Michael felt it too — that low vibration beneath the cobblestones. It wasn’t sound, not really. It was memory.The world was still echoing from what they had done.Clara walked beside him, cloak drawn close, her face hidden beneath its hood. The mark on her wrist glowed faintly through the fabric, pulsing in rhythm with her steps. Alden followed a few paces behind, keeping his gaze fixed on the rooftops as though expecting a

Morning in Falwen arrived gray and reluctant.The mist clung to the rooftops like ash refusing to settle, muffling the sounds of the waking city. For a moment, it almost felt peaceful — until the bell tolled again. Once. Twice. Then five long, trembling notes that reverberated through the mountain valley.It wasn’t a call to prayer. It was a warning.Michael stood in the inn’s doorway, cloak drawn tight, eyes scanning the fog-laden streets. Each tone of the bell felt heavier than the last, like it was pulling something ancient from the stones beneath their feet. He didn’t need his Sight to know — the air itself was stirring.Clara descended the stairs quietly, her hood lowered, golden hair catching faint light. The mark on her wrist glowed through the fabric again, brighter this time, almost responding to the bells.“It’s spreading,” she said, voice low. “The resonance—it’s stronger today.”Alden appeared behind her, already armed. “The innkeeper’s gone. Place is empty.”Michael turne

The soft rain had returned that evening — not the violent storm of a few nights ago, but the kind that fell with rhythm, like whispers on rooftops. It soaked the air in melancholy and memory, the kind that pulled the past into the present.Clara sat by the window in the guest room, wrapped in one of Michael’s old cardigans. It still carried the faint scent of him — something between cedarwood and parchment — and she found comfort in it even as the night pressed close. The lights of the city blinked faintly through the mist, distant and dim, almost like a reflection of how her heart felt.She hadn’t spoken to Michael in two days. Not properly. There had been glances, brief exchanges, polite nods — but nothing that resembled the ease they once shared. Jonathan, sensing the tension, had done his best to stay out of the crossfire. He had offered quiet prayers in the mornings, then busied himself with small acts of help: fetching firewood, preparing breakfast, or fixing the leaky roof gutt

The morning was uncharacteristically still — a silence that didn’t belong. Michael stirred from his sleep with the faint sense that something was off. The house was too quiet, as though the very walls were holding their breath. Clara was already awake, seated by the window with a folded piece of parchment in her trembling hands.When Michael’s gaze fell on her, he knew instantly — this was no ordinary letter.“It came just before dawn,” she whispered, eyes refusing to meet his. “Jonathan left it at the door.”The name cut through him like a blade. Jonathan. His presence in the story had always been a haunting mixture of brotherhood and betrayal. The man who had stood beside him in battle, and yet, the same who had turned when the tides changed. Michael reached out, his fingers brushing the sealed edges of the letter. The wax bore an insignia he hadn’t seen in years — two intertwined circles, half scorched.“The seal of the Council?” he murmured.Clara nodded faintly. “And your father’