The first glimpse of High Vathar was not of its walls, but of its sound.
Wind screamed through broken crystal spires, and the sky churned with stormlight as the City of Shards came into view—rising from a canyon of glass and ash, its buildings carved from fallen star-metal and shattered obsidian. It looked less like a city and more like the aftermath of a divine war.
Kael stood at the Causeway's edge, staring down into the canyon.
"This place was once sacred," Ysera said quietly. "Where the second Flame was kept—the Flame of Reflection. It revealed what lay buried beneath pride and fear."
"And now?" Kael asked.
"Now," Serana said, eyes narrowing, "it's occupied."
Figures moved in the distance—cloaked in black, glowing with the faint sickle-light of the Void. The Eclipsed Host had already arrived.
Kael cursed under his breath. "Then we're too late."
"No," Auren said from behind. "Not too late. But not welcome either."
He stepped forward and raised a hand. A silver flare pulsed from his palm and spread over the canyon like a veil.
Moments later, a scream erupted from below—a ghostly, inhuman wail. Then dozens more.
The Eclipsed Host stirred. Their hollow forms coalesced—warped remnants of knights and mages, faces hidden beneath bone helms and veils of smoke.
Kael gritted his teeth. "How do we fight spirits that don't die?"
"With a fire they cannot extinguish," Auren replied, turning to him. "You hold the Fifth Flame. But only the Flame of Reflection can reveal the path to cleanse them."
"And where is it?"
"In the city's heart—beneath the Mirror Spire."
Kael looked down again. "Then that's where I'm going."
Serana stepped forward. "We're going."
Thorne unstrapped his axe. "Let them try to stop us."
Together, the group descended into High Vathar, slipping between collapsed arches and broken causeways. Every shard of crystal in the city reflected pieces of themselves—Kael saw flickers of old guilt in his own eyes, the betrayal of past allies, the blood of forgotten battles.
Even the sword in his hand shimmered with old regrets.
"It's not real," he muttered. "It's the flame… testing us."
"No," Ysera said, voice low. "It's the city. This place doesn't test with fire. It tests with truth."
Suddenly, the Host attacked—phantom blades drawn, howling as they came.
Ashreign blazed as Kael met them, its edge no longer just fire—but memory solidified.
And memory, Kael now knew, cut deeper than steel.
Shards of glass rained around them as the group pushed deeper into High Vathar. Each step toward the city's center was like walking into the reflection of a dream—and a nightmare. Every spire bent the light strangely, casting endless versions of the travelers across broken walls.
But above all loomed the Mirror Spire.
It rose like a needle of silver flame, forged from thousands of crystal fragments held together by unknown forces. Its surface was perfectly smooth—until one dared look closer. Then, the Spire's glass reflected not the present, but the moments Kael wished to forget.
He saw his father's corpse, slain during the rebellion.
He saw Dareth, his brother, left behind in the burning keep.
He saw the day he chose Ashreign—and the souls it consumed ever since.
"I thought I buried these memories," Kael whispered, stunned.
"The Flame of Reflection reveals all," Ysera said, her voice grave. "But the Spire does not give power. It offers only a choice."
"And that choice is?" Orin asked, swinging his blade at a phantom that leapt from a window.
"To see yourself entirely… and not turn away."
The gates of the Spire stood shattered. From within, a cold wind blew, smelling of rain and old sorrow.
Kael stepped forward, sword in hand.
"Let's finish this."
Inside, light bent unnaturally. The floor was water, but solid underfoot. Mirrors floated midair, each one showing a version of Kael: the tyrant, the coward, the lost son, the savior who failed.
Then, at the center of the chamber—a pedestal. Upon it burned a quiet, white flame. No heat. No flicker. Just stillness.
The Second Flame.
As Kael approached, a figure stepped from the mirror beside it.
It was Kael. But older—wounded, twisted by regret, wearing a broken version of Ashreign strapped across his back.
"I am what you become," the figure rasped. "If you carry the flames with pride… but never humility."
Kael raised his blade. "You're not me."
"I was," the echo said. "And I will be—unless you let go."
The two Kaels clashed, mirror-light flashing with each blow. But the real Kael didn't fight to kill.
He fought to understand.
Every strike revealed a memory. Every parry reminded him of who he had been—and who he refused to become.
At last, Kael dropped to one knee, lowered his weapon, and said, "I forgive you."
The echo froze… then shattered into a million slivers.
The room fell still.
Kael reached for the Second Flame.
It did not burn him.
It simply flowed into his chest—gentle, clear, and deep as still water. Ashreign shimmered, and a new rune etched itself along its hilt.
Behind him, Serana whispered, "You've changed."
Kael stood, eyes glowing faint silver.
"No. I've remembered."
The wind outside the Mirror Spire had changed.
Where once it screamed with ghosts and shattered memories, now it moved in a hush—like the world itself was holding its breath. Kael stood upon the Spire's steps, Ashreign at his back, the Second Flame now coursing silently beneath his skin.
But the city of High Vathar had not yet released them.
All around, mirrors continued to flicker—windows set in ruinous walls, pools of water undisturbed by the wind, even polished armor fragments abandoned in the streets. They watched.
"Something's wrong," Mira said, her daggers already in hand. "The Host is gone, but this place still feels… haunted."
"Because it is," Ysera murmured. "The Flame of Reflection burns clean, but it leaves a scar. The city remembers everything it's shown."
Kael scanned the empty alleys. "Then what's watching us?"
A voice, soft as breath over glass, spoke from nowhere and everywhere at once.
"We are what you buried."
The companions turned, blades ready, but saw only their reflections multiplying in every surface.
Then, they moved.
One by one, the reflections stepped from their mirrored prisons—doppelgängers of Kael, Serana, Mira, even Thorne. But they weren't perfect. They were warped. Eyes hollow. Smiles twisted.
"Reflected Wraiths," Ysera hissed. "Thought-echoes given shape. The Spire's final defense."
Kael faced his double—its Ashreign etched with rot, the runes reversed and flickering darkly.
"You're just memory," Kael said. "You're not real."
The doppelgänger tilted its head.
"And yet, you gave me form."
They struck as one—Kael against himself, Mira dancing between shadows, Orin dueling a version of himself who bled lightning, and Thorne smashing through his own iron twin.
But Kael quickly realized: the wraith knew him. It anticipated every feint, every pivot. It remembered his fury. His fear.
This wasn't a battle of might.
It was a battle of will.
Kael exhaled. Stepped back. Closed his eyes.
Then, instead of striking, he sheathed Ashreign and stood still.
The wraith hesitated.
"You have no power," Kael whispered, "unless I fear you."
Light burst from his chest—silver and emberlight braided together. It washed over the battlefield, engulfing the wraiths.
And like breath on glass… they vanished.
Silence returned.
Kael opened his eyes. Around him, only his true companions remained, breathing hard—but alive.
Serana wiped blood from her cheek. "That was a lesson."
Kael nodded slowly. "Not every enemy can be killed. Some have to be understood."
From the shadows, Auren stepped forth, watching with faint pride.
"You've passed the second trial," he said. "But the Bearer's Path has many more."
Kael looked down the shattered road ahead. "Then I'll walk them all."
The group departed High Vathar beneath a twilight sky, the once-gleaming city of mirrors now dimmed behind them, quiet as a dream forgotten at dawn.
Kael walked at the front, his steps slower, heavier. Though the Second Flame pulsed gently within him, there was no triumph in his gait—only purpose. Each trial left more than scars; it left truths, and those were harder to carry.
Thorne trudged beside him, his hammer strapped across his broad back. "We ain't seen the last of whatever that was. That place... it knows us. Like it saw us."
"It did," Kael said without looking. "And now it's part of me."
Ysera, riding a pale windsteed summoned from a rune stone, watched Kael closely. "You're changing. Faster than most Flamebearers do. That worries me."
Mira, walking behind them, whistled low. "Let the man change. He's glowing. Literally. If glowing means I don't get eaten by shadow-dogs, let him shine."
But the mood changed when they reached the edge of the Duskfen—a sickened land, its trees bent like broken ribs, its air thick with rot and mourning. A single stone bridge crossed a gorge of blackened mist, and atop that bridge stood a figure clad in armor older than any they had seen.
"A knight," Serana whispered, her voice stiff with recognition.
Kael narrowed his eyes. The figure did not move. But carved into the stone at his feet, ancient words flickered with emberlight:
"Only the Oathbound may pass."
Ysera dismounted, her voice shaking. "That's a Sentinel of Aeyr. One of the last."
Kael approached, Ashreign resting on his shoulder. "We mean no harm."
The knight lifted his head. His helm was etched with the sigil of the lost kingdom of Elion—a silver phoenix, cracked straight through the heart.
"You carry the Flame," the knight rasped. "Then you carry the Oath."
"I've sworn nothing yet," Kael said.
The knight drew his sword. "But you will. Or you will die here, as many have before."
Lightning cracked across the sky.
Serana whispered, "He was one of the First Vowmakers. The ones who bled the land into the Flame itself."
"Then he's bound by it," Kael said. "And so am I."
The clash was swift. The knight moved with the grace of centuries, every strike a poem of discipline and despair. Ashreign met the blade of the past—and sang.
Kael fought not with rage, but with clarity. The Second Flame glowed from his core, whispering truths. He parried not to destroy, but to free.
And when he disarmed the knight, he did not strike the killing blow.
Instead, Kael drove his blade into the stone and knelt. "I will not shatter your oath," he said. "I'll renew it."
The knight froze. Then slowly, with creaking limbs, he removed his helm. Beneath it, a face as pale as marble—young, ageless, dead—and yet… at peace.
"You remember," the knight whispered. "Then go. And do not let the Flame consume what you once swore to protect."
With that, the knight crumbled into dust—leaving behind only the sword and the bridge now open to them.
Kael took the blade and held it skyward. "This… is the weight of our past."
And with it, they crossed into the Duskfen—where the echoes of broken vows would test their will more deeply than any blade.
The Duskfen did not welcome travelers—it swallowed them.
From the moment Kael and his companions stepped across the bridge, the world shifted. Trees leaned inward as if listening, and the mists crawled like living things. There was no birdsong, no wind, only the distant, rhythmic creak of unseen limbs… and the cold breath of forgotten things.
Mira rubbed her arms. "I've robbed temples, climbed blood cliffs, slept in a Basilisk's den. Nothing ever felt this wrong."
Ysera moved closer, her voice barely above a whisper. "The Fen is cursed. But not by magic. By memory."
Kael led the way, Ashreign dim but warm at his back. He had wrapped the fallen Sentinel's blade in cloth, now tied across his chest. A relic, and a reminder.
Thorne's heavy boots sank deep into the half-rotted moss. "There's movement. Left flank."
The trees shifted. Something long and pale slithered out—no legs, no eyes, just a mouth split too wide, and bone armor etched with old, flickering glyphs. It hissed, and behind it, three more appeared.
"Fenwardens," Ysera gasped. "Guardians of the old pact."
"They look like they want our eyes," Mira muttered, drawing twin daggers.
The creatures circled. But instead of attacking, they spoke—each in a different voice, all familiar.
"You left her."
"You broke your vow."
"You feared the truth more than the flame."
Kael stepped forward. "You speak with stolen voices."
"We speak what you bury." the creatures hissed together.
Without waiting for a signal, they attacked.
Kael moved like fire. Ashreign met the first Warden's strike, searing its twisted tongue. Mira danced like wind through shadows, blades flashing silver. Thorne crushed a second Warden into the bog, but not before it whispered, "You let him die."
Thorne roared and swung again.
Kael faced the last creature alone. It didn't attack—it only stared, mouthing the word:
"Ashen."
A memory surged.
A girl in a red cloak. A hand reaching into flame. Screams.
Kael faltered for just a heartbeat.
The creature lunged.
But Serana was faster, her arrow driving through its skull.
"You'll face that name," she said, lowering her bow, "but not here. Not like this."
The fog retreated as the bodies dissolved into roots and ash.
Ysera spoke softly. "This land doesn't guard itself. It tests."
"And we passed?" Mira asked.
Kael stared into the deep mists ahead. "No. That was only the welcome."
In the distance, lights began to flicker. Not torches. Eyes.
Dozens of them. Waiting.
And from beyond them came a voice, slow and hollow.
"Flamebearer. Come see what your fire has forgotten."