The wind was sharp at this altitude. The broken cityscape of Altheria stretched far beneath Syra's boots, rooftops littered with ash and flickering neon banners still advertising a future that no longer existed.
She stood at the edge of an abandoned skyrail station, hood drawn over her eyes, the silver gleam of her dagger reflecting the red light of dusk. Behind her, the doors groaned open.
"Do you really think this is the place?" Riven asked, stepping forward, blood-soaked bandages wrapped tight around his forearms.
Syra didn't answer immediately. Her gaze remained fixed on the massive temple rising in the distance—a temple no one remembered being there yesterday.
"It wasn't here before," she said at last. "But now… I can feel it calling."
Riven frowned. "Could be a trap."
"Everything's been a trap lately."
They moved together, silent shadows against the broken steel. As they descended toward the streets below, Syra's thoughts drifted—not to Lucian, not to the war—but to the note still folded inside her pocket.
"The first draft is never the final one."
She hadn't told Riven about it. She hadn't told anyone.
She didn't even know who had written it… not for sure.
But something inside her whispered that it mattered.
Inside the Temple of False Echoes
The interior was drenched in darkness.
Candles burned, yet their flames gave no warmth. The walls pulsed faintly, like breathing stone. Ancient glyphs shimmered and twisted, never quite settling into readable script.
And standing in the center—was someone waiting.
A man in a long crimson coat. Eyes hidden behind a bone-white mask carved in the likeness of a weeping angel.
"Kaelion's flame returns," he said, voice like cracking glass.
"And she brings a half-blood hound."
Riven growled. "Say that again, freak."
"Don't," Syra said softly, hand already on her weapon. "Who are you?"
The masked man tilted his head. "I go by many names. But here, I am simply a Witness."
He gestured around the room. Glyphs lit up in response, illuminating three tall pedestals. Upon each sat a chained relic—black stones with glowing red cores.
Syra's heart stuttered. "Are those—?"
"No," the Witness interrupted. "They are not pieces of the Heaven Key. But they are… echoes. Failed forgeries from another war."
"Why show us this?"
"To see how you react. To test if you are truly ready to carry what comes next."
Before Syra could respond, the temple groaned. Walls shifted. The room stretched unnaturally.
And a door opened behind the Witness, revealing a swirling corridor of lightning and shadow.
"Step through," he said.
"Or run."
Syra looked at Riven. He nodded once.
And they stepped through.
The Realm of Hollow Sparks
Inside was not a corridor.
It was a battlefield.
They were somewhere else—somewhen else. Syra's boots crunched on black glass. The sky was violet and bleeding. Storms tore through the horizon, each bolt striking figures locked in eternal combat.
Warriors made of mist. Beasts of bone. Celestial knights.
In the center, a woman floated.
Eyes shut. Hands outstretched. Chains wrapped around her body like silver serpents.
Syra gasped. "That's… me."
The chained woman opened her eyes.
"No," she whispered.
"That's who you could become."
The vision shattered like crystal.
They were back in the temple.
Only now, the Witness was gone.
And in his place stood… Lucian.
But it wasn't the brother she remembered.
His armor was darker. His eyes glowing red.
He raised his blade. "You walked into my future, Syra. Now bleed for it."
The Battle for Reflection
Syra drew her blade, steel hissing against shadow. Riven moved to flank, demonic wings flaring from his back. But Lucian moved like lightning—fast, precise, brutal.
He parried Syra's strikes with ease. "Still holding back?"
"I don't kill family," she hissed.
"Then you'll die weak."
His sword arced toward her face—only for Riven to intercept it, claws sparking as they clashed.
"You want her, brother of lies?" Riven snarled. "You'll have to get through me."
Lucian smirked. "Gladly."
The room became chaos—steel on steel, shadow against flame. Syra channeled her inner fire, unleashing a burst of red energy that knocked Lucian back.
But he only laughed.
"I remember when your father said the same thing."
She froze.
Lucian's smirk widened. "He said he wouldn't kill me either."
Then he drove his blade toward her heart.
It stopped inches away.
Because something intervened.
A barrier of gold and black light shimmered between them—and then, a figure.
Cloaked.
Masked.
Silent.
Lucian stepped back, fury in his eyes. "You again…"
Syra's heart pounded. "Who—?"
The figure said nothing.
He handed Syra a silver shard—smooth, cold.
Then vanished.
Lucian roared in rage.
The temple exploded outward in a burst of red flame.
Aftermath
Syra woke in the ruins. Riven was beside her, unconscious but breathing.
The shard was still in her hand.
She held it to the light. For a second—it glowed.
Not like a key. Not like a weapon.
Like a memory.
A message.
Carved into the shard was a single word:
"Choice."