The descent was endless.
Stairs carved from jagged obsidian twisted downward through a tunnel of molten stone. The deeper they went, the heavier the air became—thick with ash and memory, grief and rage. The walls pulsed faintly, breathing like a slumbering beast.
Jack led the way, each step echoing like a drumbeat in the silence. Behind him, Nyssa kept pace, her sword drawn but lowered. Marek walked in silence, hand always near his blade. Lola's eyes never stopped scanning the walls, reading the unseen. Kael followed last, more silent than ever, shadows clinging to him like smoke.
Then, finally, the stairs ended.
They stepped out into a wasteland of dust and bone.
The sky above was colorless—a churning void where clouds no longer moved. The ground was cracked, scorched black and gray. Nothing grew here. No wind stirred. The air was too still, as if even time refused to pass.
And rising in the distance was a ruin of unimaginable scale—jagged towers shaped like broken ribs, jutting from the earth like the remains of a dead god. This was not a city. This was a grave.
Lola's voice was barely audible. "This is the place."
"The Ashen Wastes," Jack said, his voice hushed. "Where the Sundering truly began."
Kael stepped beside him. "And where it will end?"
Jack didn't answer.
They walked.
Their footsteps left no mark in the dust. The land drank sound. As they neared the ruins, they saw shattered murals carved into monoliths—depictions of winged beings falling from the heavens, of a great star breaking open the earth, of a serpent of light devouring the world.
The gates of the ruin stood open, though no doors remained—only the frames, half-melted by fire not born of this world.
Inside, they found the remnants of a temple: a central dais, half-buried in cinders. Blackened statues surrounded it, all faceless, all looking inward.
At the center, a single slab of obsidian stood. And on it—a sword.
Not of mortal make.
Its blade was thin and etched with veins of glowing silver. Its hilt was shaped like wings folded inward. And the moment Jack saw it, his heart stuttered.
"That's…" he whispered.
"The Blade of Echoes," Lola finished. "It was used in the first Sundering. Forged from the soul of the last Starlighter."
Jack stepped forward, but the air shimmered—something invisible barring his path. A voice echoed through the chamber, hollow and layered:
"The vessel approaches. The bearer of ruin. The inheritor of silence."
From the shadows, figures emerged. Phantoms.
Tall, cloaked in ash. Their faces were masks—smooth and white, each bearing a different rune. One held a staff of bone, another a chain of molten iron. There were six in total.
"The Ash-Bound," Lola said grimly. "Guardians of the Threshold. They served the being that was broken—the one that became the Devourer."
The central figure spoke, its voice male and female, old and newborn all at once.
"You seek to take the Blade. But the Blade remembers. It remembers what you are."
Jack stepped forward. "I'm not here to destroy. I'm here to stop the Sundering."
"You are the Sundering," another hissed. "You carry the faultline in your soul."
Marek stepped forward, sword drawn. "Then you'll have to go through all of us."
"No," Jack said, raising a hand. "This is mine."
He stepped forward, through the shimmering wall. It resisted, clawed at his skin, tried to peel back his thoughts. But Jack focused—on his friends, on what he had endured, on the truth that he was still here.
The resistance broke.
The Ash-Bound moved, flickering like smoke—but none attacked. They only circled, whispering.
Jack climbed the dais.
The moment his hand touched the hilt of the Blade of Echoes, time fractured.
Visions exploded around him.
He saw the original being—the great luminous god that had housed both light and dark. He saw its shattering, the splitting of its essence into creation and consumption. He saw the blade—this blade—plunge into its chest, the wound that began the First Sundering.
Then he saw himself.
Standing in the ruins of this same temple, but alone, and different. Cold. Hollow-eyed. Surrounded by ash. The blade in his hand. The world dying behind him.
"No," Jack said through clenched teeth. "That's not me."
A light pulsed from his chest—the seal, the mark left by the Mirror.
And the Blade answered.
Its glow shifted—no longer silver, but blue, then gold, then crimson. It harmonized with his blood.
Jack drew the Blade of Echoes.
The Ash-Bound fell to their knees.
"The wound opens again," they whispered. "The Sundering walks."
But Jack did not feel despair. He felt fire. He felt truth.
He turned back to the others, the blade humming in his hand.
"We're going to the Maw," he said. "Where the world cracked the first time."
Lola's eyes widened. "You remember where it is?"
Jack nodded slowly. "Not just where. When."
The Blade had shown him more than a path. It had shown him time itself—fractured and looping, anchored to a single point.
The Sundering wasn't just a past event. It was recurring. Cyclical. Bound to him.
And now he carried the key.
He looked to the horizon—where the sky boiled, and the veil between worlds grew thin.
"We end it at the place where it began," Jack said, voice steady. "Even if it breaks me."
Nyssa stepped beside him. "Then we'll break with you."
Marek grunted. "What are friends for."
Kael, silent until now, nodded once. "Let's make history fear us."
The Blade pulsed, and the Ashen Wastes trembled.
The end had begun.