The gate beneath Vel'Thera yawned open—not like a door, but like a wound splitting open in the skin of the world.
It didn't lead down.
It led inward.
Darkness spiraled around the edges, but at its center glowed a single floating eye—massive, lidless, and ancient. Not watching… remembering.
The masked figures didn't follow. The lead one bowed his head.
"This is your descent."
Lyrius didn't ask what he'd find.
He jumped.
He didn't fall.
He unraveled.
His body became weightless thought, scattered into strands of self—his memories stripped, his emotions peeled away. Time twisted like smoke. Faces drifted through the void—some he knew. Others hadn't happened yet.
Then—
Impact.
He hit something solid. Air rushed back into his lungs. He coughed, gasped—and opened his eyes.
He was standing in a vast hall made entirely of mirrors.
Each mirror reflected a version of him.
Not illusions.
Possibilities.
One Lyrius stood in golden armor, leading an army.
Another wore a crown made of bone, his eyes empty.
One was alone, begging for forgiveness.
Another… was dead.
A voice echoed through the hall—like glass breaking underwater.
"Welcome to the Realm Between Realms."
Lyrius turned.
A figure approached from the shadows—tall, robed in flowing threads of shadow and light. Its face was a shifting mask, constantly changing—man, woman, beast, child, all and none.
"I am the Archivist," it said. "Keeper of what could be."
Lyrius raised his guard. "What do you want?"
The Archivist tilted its head. "To offer you clarity. Before the true enemy arrives."
"What enemy?"
It gestured.
One mirror shattered.
From the shards rose a thing—twisted, crawling, screaming with no mouth. Its body was a patchwork of limbs, stitched from shadows. Its eyes were all Lyrius's.
"The Forsaken Self," the Archivist whispered. "Every fear you've hidden, every darkness you've denied. It has grown. And now it hunts you."
The beast charged.
Lyrius didn't move—at first.
He watched it, felt it, understood it.
This wasn't a monster.
It was him.
A version that gave in. That broke. That stopped trying.
"I'm not you," Lyrius said, raising his sword.
"But I remember you."
He dashed forward, faster than before, power flowing naturally now, no resistance. Each swing was purpose. Each step, revelation.
The fight was brutal. Not flashy. Personal.
It ended when Lyrius drove his blade through the creature's chest—and whispered, "Rest."
The mirror behind it rebuilt itself.
And in its surface, Lyrius saw something new.
Not a reflection.
A door.
The Archivist approached. "You have faced the first. There will be others."
Lyrius wiped the blood from his face.
"Then I'll face them too."
The Archivist offered a single, burning feather.
"Take this. You will need it in the realm above. For soon… the others will awaken."
Lyrius stepped through the door.
Back into the world.
Changed.