The cold had grown cruel.
It didn't howl anymore—it pressed in, like hands wrapping the world in silence. Eastward, the sky darkened with no clouds. No sun. Just that steady hush, broken by things that weren't there. The mountains behind them felt like a memory already. The shrine, a dream half-left.
But ahead—the air pulsed. Not just with danger.
With memory.
Elior didn't shiver. He couldn't afford to. The staff at his side, long and black as a night river, thrummed like a heartbeat—not glowing, but alive. It hummed through his fingers. It didn't guide with light. It pulled, like a needle toward thread, dragging him toward something deeper than destiny.
Seraphis limped beside him. The great beast, fur matted and blackened by smoke, moved like a shadow breaking apart. Claw-marks across his side leaked lightless ash. But his eyes—those molten blue eyes—were wide open, burning straight ahead.
On the third day, trees gave up.
On the fourth, the world did too.
The land dropped into an impossible wound. A canyon with no depth—only absence. The ground just ended in a cleave wide as a city, stretching from one horizon to the next. A black scar. Not made by war, or gods, or time. Just... removed.
And above it—something impossible.
A bridge.
Floating.
Made not of stone or wood—but of language.
Runes formed its spine—glowing, carved from heatless fire. Thousands, flickering with a whispering hum. It was not built. It was remembered into being.
Seraphis stopped dead.
"This place wasn't meant for the living."
Elior stepped forward, staring at the bridge like it had been calling him in dreams he hadn't known he had.
"I know," he said. "But it remembers me."
He placed a foot on the first plank.
The staff flared—a cold blue pulse.
The rune beneath his boot glowed:
Althari – Flamebearer of the First Gate.
Then the next:
Ciroth – Ash-Speaker. Lost to the Severed.
Each step brought a name. Some he almost recognized, like echoes from books never written. Others felt like his own bones speaking back. The bridge sang—not with sound, but with story. Voices rising from air. Oaths, screams, lullabies, all bleeding from the flame-runes with every step forward.
Seraphis growled low, his claws scratching sparks on the runes.
"I've crossed fire realms. But this… feels like walking through someone's soul."
"It is," Elior said quietly. "I think it's mine."
Halfway across, the air changed.
No wind. No cold. Just emptiness. Like the sky forgot how to breathe.
Then the ash below began to rise.
First just a flicker. A swirl.
Then a storm.
It churned up from the rift—gray coils, spiraling around the bridge. And from it… shapes.
Not Mirrorborn. Not Warden. Not even Severed.
These were something else.
The Forgotten.
Ghosts with no anchor. Souls broken off from stories that never finished. Faces half-formed, arms made of smoke and regret. Some were children. Some were giants. Some just wore pieces of armor, dragging blades of memory.
"They want the bridge," Seraphis snarled, fur rising.
"They want to be remembered," Elior said.
The staff roared in his hand.
Blue fire spun from its tip—slashing out in a wide arc, tracing a glowing sigil in midair. A burning circle of runes, hovering in front of him. It began to spin.
A memory wheel.
He stepped forward. Raised the staff.
And thrust his hand into the center of the wheel.
The flames hissed—but didn't burn. Instead, they poured into his veins. His eyes turned white-blue. His voice came out not as sound, but as force.
"By this name," he said, "you are seen."
The wheel spun faster. Runes lit one by one.
Each burst of light stopped a Forgotten in its tracks.
A warrior made of shattered glass halted mid-lunge.
A child with wings of fire folded to its knees.
A beast of armor and void stilled in silence.
Each of them, caught in the glow of their own names, whispered back into existence for just one second.
That was enough.
They let go.
And fell.
Not screaming. Not angry.
Just... released.
The ashstorm broke apart, sucked downward in spirals. It fell like rain in reverse, vanishing into the black pit beneath them.
The bridge stilled. The air returned.
Seraphis coughed out a breath like it had been held for centuries.
"You gave them peace."
"I gave them a moment," Elior said. "That's all a story needs."
Then—
The bridge's final plank came into view.
And on it stood a figure.
Wrapped in robes made of melted time—dark red and gold, woven with constellations that moved. A mask covered their face—bone-white, carved in a silent scream. Their arms were bound in red silk. Around their neck hung a chain of broken hourglasses.
Elior's breath caught.
"Who—"
"The Archivist," Seraphis said, voice a whisper. "A witness. Not judge. Not friend. They decide what gets remembered. What becomes legend."
The figure raised a hand.
No sound came.
But behind them, the bridge vanished.
Every rune. Every name. Gone.
The staff went still.
Only the memory wheel remained, shrinking. Spinning. Then folding—curling into Elior's chest, absorbed like a seed into soil.
The Archivist stepped aside.
And the air tore open.
No frame. No door.
Just a tear in space, opening wide. A Gate.
Beyond it—skies red as blood. Towers spiraled like bone and steel. And music—sharp, beautiful—fluttered through the wind like birds made of violins.
The next shrine.
The next trial.
The next realm.
Elior stepped closer. But he turned, eyes locked on the Archivist.
"If I fail," he asked, "what happens to my name?"
The figure tilted their head.
And then—
Elior heard it.
Not a voice.
A verdict.
"Then your name will be dust.
The chain will break.
And what remains will belong to the Severed."
Seraphis growled, hackles raised.
Elior didn't speak.
Just nodded.
And stepped through the Gate.
The wind hit like thunder.
Colors shattered around him. The world folded.
And behind them—silence.
The Gate closed.
And the trial of the next realm began.