Inside Shar-Gul, the streets were quiet, choked by sand and time. Its people had long vanished—or become something else.
Aarav moved through alleyways littered with relics: sun-blessed swords, broken scimitars, and faded murals of serpent gods.
At the city's heart stood the Temple of Echoes—a ziggurat made of black stone, etched with glowing blue veins. It pulsed, as though alive.
The ring began to tremble.
He stepped inside.
The air was thick with memory. Whispers rose around him—his mother's lullaby, his father's last breath, even the voice of Rivan calling his name.
They weren't real. They were echoes—fragments of forgotten truths.
At the temple's core sat a throne made of glass. Upon it, shackled in golden chains, was a woman.
Her hair was silver, her skin pale but unaged. Her eyes fluttered open as he approached.
"Aarav…" she whispered. "You found me."
Tears welled in his eyes. "Mother?"
But before he could reach her, a blast of shadow knocked him back.
Kaalkrit stepped from the darkness, armored in black, a great blade in hand. His voice was cold steel.
"You are too late."
He raised his blade—and the Third Trial began.