He'd barely made it past the cracked gates of Thal'Nora when his knees buckled. His fingers loosened around the staff. The gold-lighted weapon wobbled, then clattered to the stone.
The world spun sideways.
He dropped to the ground, one hand pressing to his bleeding side. Warm blood. Still running. His cloak was half-burned away. Dust clung to his face. His breath came shallow.
Then everything went black.
And something deeper pulled him in.
He opened his eyes—but not to the city.
He was standing.
Not on stone.
Not even on ground.
Just on light. A glowing, endless surface underfoot. Pale blue, like morning mist frozen mid-air. The world around him shimmered like a reflection without water—hazy, rippling, unreal.
Above him, a sky of ink. No stars. Just shifting symbols, glowing faintly and fading. Like runes written in breath.
He was nowhere. And yet… not alone.
"Where is this?" Elior whispered.
The staff appeared in his hand again—but not like before. Its shape had changed. Sleeker. Curved at the end like a crescent. The runes glowed blue instead of gold now. And they were moving—rewriting themselves like they were alive.
Then he heard them.
Voices.
Faint. Whispering. Layered over each other like wind passing through old halls.
One clear, female voice broke through first:
"We gave our names to the flame, so that you might carry light where even gods falter."
Another voice, deeper, weathered:
"If you're here… then the Gate opened too early. Or you did."
Elior turned slowly.
Figures stood at the edge of the mist-light. Not real bodies. Just echoes—shapes of old armor, shadows of robes, outlines made of memory. They didn't move, but their presence felt massive. Ancient.
There were nine of them. All faint. All watching.
He took one step forward.
And the world bent.
A ripple shot out from his footstep, and suddenly the horizon folded inward like a page turning. The sky collapsed into itself and reformed—and he was no longer alone.
A woman stood in front of him now.
Tall, silver hair braided with runes. One arm was missing. In its place, a sculpted limb of gold light. Her eyes glowed faint blue, same as the staff.
"You're the new one," she said softly.
"Who are you?" Elior asked.
"A scar," she replied. "A memory that hasn't fully died."
She gestured around.
"This place is the staff's core. What remains of us—those who carried it before—sleeps here. Until the next wielder breaks open its name."
Elior looked at the runes glowing on the shaft.
"They changed," he said.
"They chose," she corrected. "Because you changed."
Another figure stepped from the shadows. A man this time. Skin marked with fire scars. Eyes blind, but still somehow piercing.
"Or maybe you awoke something that shouldn't wake yet."
The woman turned slightly.
"You always were dramatic."
He laughed dryly.
"Only because I remember what comes next."
Elior stepped forward. "Do any of you know who that man was—the one with the silver hair? The one who—"
The sky pulsed.
Like something shivered in the dark.
All nine echoes around the realm flickered. Some turned away. The woman's voice dropped lower.
"He is not one of us. He was… once. But he chose another path."
"The Severed," the scarred man whispered. "He gave up his tether to time. Burned his own fate out of the world's weave. What you fought was only part of him."
"A fragment?" Elior asked.
"A finger," the woman replied. "The rest waits behind something deeper than the Gate. And it is pulling."
Elior's jaw clenched. "I have to stop him."
"You don't understand," said a third figure—an old woman with a hood of feathers and a voice like crackling wood. "You think he's trying to break the world."
"…He's trying to replace it."
The sky above flashed once. A jagged tear—like what Elior had seen in Thal'Nora—briefly split across the ink-black clouds. Through it, he saw flashes of… something else.
A tower made of mirrors, endlessly tall. A forest of white trees screaming silently. A moon with chains around it.
Then the tear closed.
Elior looked down at the staff.
"…What am I supposed to do?"
The silver-haired echo stepped forward again.
"You listen."
She raised a hand—and the staff in Elior's hand burst with light. Symbols unfolded off it like petals. Circles spun outward, inscribed with old names—Lioran. Cael. Sythra. Myren. Vask. More he couldn't pronounce.
Each one flickered, then faded.
Except one.
Elior.
It burned brighter.
And under it, a second line began to appear.
Not in symbols. In words.
"Bearer of the Eighth Flame."
"Witness of the Severed Path."
The mist-world pulsed.
The echoes around him began to fade. Slowly, like smoke.
The blind man's voice drifted again:
"Your power will grow. But so will the weight. This is no longer about survival. You carry one of the last names the world remembers."
The feathered woman added: "The Severed is not alone. There are others. Waiting for him to open the final gate."
"The One Beneath."
"The Choir Without Tongue."
"The Mirrorborn."
Names with no faces. But Elior felt them. Stirring just beyond the veil.
The silver-haired echo raised her hand one last time.
"Wake, Elior," she whispered. "And remember. The staff is not your weapon."
"It is your witness."
He gasped.
The real world rushed back in.
He was on his back. Blood dried on his shoulder. The air was cool. Someone had covered him with a cloak. Others were nearby—helping, clearing rubble. A child peeked around a broken pillar, wide-eyed.
Elior sat up, wincing.
His staff was beside him.
It looked different now. Subtle, but real. The wood was darker. The metal bands gleamed blue. And the runes?
Still glowing.
Still… shifting.
He touched it.
It didn't flare with light. Not this time.
It just hummed.
Not like power.
Like memory.