Rain poured over the ruins of the Temple of False Echoes. Lightning crackled far above, revealing only glimpses of shattered pillars and blood-streaked stone. Syra stood alone amid the wreckage, her fingers tight around the silver shard.
It pulsed—not with heat, but with a rhythm. Like a second heartbeat.
Like something inside it remembered her.
She had no words for what she felt.
Only that something had changed.
Behind her, Riven stirred.
"Still alive," he rasped, coughing. "That's good. You look like hell."
She didn't respond. Her eyes were fixed on the horizon, where the temple's gateway had once stood. Nothing remained now—just sky and ash.
"Lucian's power…" Riven struggled to sit up. "It's different. Twisted. That wasn't just rage—something's feeding him."
Syra finally turned. "And yet he hesitated. He could've killed us. But he didn't."
Riven arched an eyebrow. "You think he's holding back?"
She shook her head. "No. I think someone else is… interfering."
Her grip tightened around the shard.
"Author," she whispered.
Riven's brow furrowed. "You've said that name before. Who is he?"
She looked down. "Someone watching. Someone who keeps showing up and... changing things."
"You think he's helping you?"
"I don't know."
They sat in silence, the storm growing louder.
A Voice Beyond Thunder
That night, Syra dreamed of pages.
An endless sky of parchment, each line of ink floating upward, rearranging itself into spirals and constellations. And then, through the swirling lines—a voice.
Author (whispering): "This is your version now. Not theirs."
Syra (in dream): "Then why are you still here?"
Author: "Because even the narrator forgets who owns the story."
She saw herself—standing in a room of mirrors, each reflection a version of her: a tyrant, a savior, a broken warrior, a girl with flames in her blood.
"Choose who you are," the voice whispered.
And the dream ended.
Return to the Ember Archives
The next morning, they set off—guided by a rumor of forbidden records buried beneath the city's cratered core: the Ember Archives.
Syra had only heard whispers of them. A place even the gods had tried to erase.
They found the ruins by dusk—hidden beneath the wreckage of an old war engine.
Glyphs burned faintly as Syra approached.
As if recognizing her blood.
A narrow corridor led them into silence.
The further they walked, the less the world felt real. Sound faded. Their steps echoed too loudly. And then—they found the archives.
Scrolls bound in flame. Books stitched from forgotten languages. And in the center, a pedestal.
On it rested a journal.
Not old.
Not ancient.
Recent.
Syra's hand trembled as she picked it up. It was identical to the notebook the Author had carried.
Inside were only three words:
"This is yours."
And below them… a map.
Drawn by hand. Leading to the next battleground.
Riven looked over her shoulder. "This guy really knows how to keep things dramatic."
Syra smiled faintly. "He knows how to rewrite fate."
Elsewhere: The Hell King's Gambit
Far away, in the lowest rung of Hell's fifth circle, Lucian stood before a black throne carved of soulstone.
The Hell King sat upon it, molten veins running across his skin, eyes like dying suns.
"You failed," the king said, bored. "Again."
Lucian bowed his head. "I hesitated."
"Because you still think she's your sister?"
Lucian didn't reply.
The Hell King rose, towering. "Let me tell you a secret, Kaelion. Blood doesn't bind destiny. Power does."
He stepped down and held out a vial—filled with a seething red mist.
Lucian hesitated. "What is it?"
"Essence of the first rewritten soul. Pure authority. Take it—and she won't stand a chance."
Lucian reached out…
Paused…
Then closed his fist without taking it.
"No," he said. "If I win, it has to be mine."
The Hell King grinned, fangs gleaming. "Interesting. You might still be worthy."
Behind them, flames whispered.
And the war ahead drew closer.
Back at the Surface
Syra and Riven emerged from the Ember Archives beneath a gray morning sky.
She tucked the notebook away, heart heavier, resolve sharpened.
"So?" Riven asked.
"Where to now?"
She unfolded the map.
A name was scrawled across the next region in looping script:
"Sanctum of the Mirror God."
Syra looked toward the rising sun.
"We walk into prophecy now," she said.
"But this time, I get to decide how it ends."