The staircase spiraled down endlessly.
What had begun as weathered stone turned into gleaming obsidian, then to bone, and then to something else entirely—something smoother than glass, yet alive. It pulsed faintly beneath their boots, like the heartbeat of the city itself.
Eira paused at the base of the stairs, the torchlight flickering against the smooth black walls.
"We're not in the city anymore," she said quietly.
Lucien stepped beside her. "We're beneath it."
Lyselle held her staff aloft, murmuring a low incantation. The orb at its peak glowed blue, revealing a massive door ahead—tall and narrow, carved with intricate lines that moved as they watched.
Kairen ran a hand along the wall. "This isn't just magic. It's organic. Like the walls are breathing."
"They are," Ravien muttered.
Eira's crystal pulsed like a second heartbeat against her chest. She took a step forward, unable to look away from the door. At the center was a symbol she hadn't seen before—an eye carved from bone, surrounded by rings of flame and roses.
She reached for it, ignoring Lucien's sharp intake of breath.
Her fingers brushed the eye.
It blinked.
The door shuddered—and slowly, silently, began to open inward.
They stepped into a chamber unlike anything above.
It was enormous—circular, domed, glowing with a soft, golden light that didn't come from fire. Runes lined the walls, written in a language none of them recognized. Pillars shaped like spines stretched toward the ceiling, ending in claws that cradled floating crystals of blood.
At the center of the room stood a tree—dead and colorless, but not rotted. Its branches reached toward the dome like they were trying to escape. Its roots cracked the floor around it.
Lucien stopped cold. "That's… impossible."
"What is it?" Eira asked.
He didn't answer.
Lyselle walked toward the tree, eyes wide with reverence. "This is the Heart of the Veil," she whispered. "It shouldn't exist. It was destroyed before the Great Sundering."
"I don't understand," Kairen said, confused. "It's just a tree."
"No," Lucien said softly. "It's the tree. The origin of the ancient binding magic that kept the world separated—the Veil that divided the realm of the living from the dead, the mortal from the divine."
Eira's mouth went dry. "But if it's here… then that division…"
Lucien nodded. "It's failing. The Veil is breaking. And this is the crack."
As they examined the room, more details emerged—scripts embedded in the walls, mechanical etchings laced with blood, and murals in gold leaf depicting a war older than civilization.
One mural stopped Eira cold.
It showed a woman—Vaelaria, no doubt—with a sword of fire in one hand, a crown in the other. Opposite her stood a man cloaked in shadows and bone, his eyes shining like dying stars.
Valtherion.
The next panel showed them together, standing before the tree. Blood poured from their palms into its roots.
"A blood pact," Eira murmured.
Ravien joined her. "Not just any pact. That's the original sealing ritual—the one that ended the war between the gods and the Undying."
Lyselle inhaled sharply. "They bound themselves to the Veil to keep the realms from collapsing."
"And then she died," Lucien said, "and the balance was broken."
Eira turned away from the mural, feeling the cold seep into her bones.
"What happens if the tree dies completely?"
Lyselle hesitated. "The Veil collapses. The dead will walk. The gods will return. The world will fracture between dream and reality."
"And Valtherion?" Eira asked.
Lucien looked at her. "He becomes king of the ashes."
At the far side of the chamber, a hidden stairwell descended even deeper.
Eira took the lead, ignoring the tension that flared behind her. Her body was moving before she could stop it—drawn forward by something older than memory, older than fate.
At the bottom of the stairs was a mirror.
But this one wasn't cracked or dusty. It gleamed, suspended in midair without a frame. Its surface rippled like water, reflecting not their images—but possibilities.
Eira stepped toward it, mesmerized.
In the reflection, she was queen—draped in black and red, a crown of bone upon her brow. Valtherion stood at her side, not as a monster, but as a ruler. There was fire in her eyes, and the city beneath the bones thrived with life and power.
She reached toward the surface—
Lucien grabbed her hand. "Don't."
She blinked.
The vision vanished.
"It's a temptation," he said, voice strained. "A vision of what could be. Not what should be."
"But it looked real."
"That's the danger."
As they backed away from the mirror, a hum began to rise through the floor.
The crystals above the tree glowed red.
The roots twitched.
A low groan echoed from the walls—a sound of awakening.
"The city knows we're here," Ravien said, drawing his sword.
"It's not the city," Eira said. "It's him."
Lucien moved to her side. "We're too close. He feels you now. You have to fight him."
Eira clutched the crystal at her neck. "What if I don't want to fight?"
He stared at her, stunned.
She looked away, ashamed. "I feel him in me, Lucien. Not just in memory. In instinct. In blood. Like he's always been there."
"That's the bond," Lyselle said. "The one formed before your first death. It was never truly severed. It lies dormant until proximity and power awaken it."
"And now it's waking," Eira whispered.
Lucien's expression darkened. "If it fully awakens, he'll be able to control you."
"Or save me," she shot back, unsure where the words had come from.
Lucien's face paled.
Kairen stepped between them, breaking the rising tension. "Okay, I vote we stop poking ancient power trees and weird soul mirrors. Let's find another way through this place before it wakes the whole dead world."
Ravien nodded. "Agreed."
They started back up the steps, but not before Eira took one last glance at the mirror.
This time, it showed her alone—standing in flame, her hands bloody, her crown shattered.
No Valtherion.
Just ruin.
Back at camp, Eira sat staring at her hands, feeling the pulse of the city beneath her.
The secrets were unraveling now.
The Veil was weakening.
And whatever lay in the heart of this place—at the center of Valtherion's resurrection—was no longer waiting.
It was coming.
And part of her, no matter how afraid, was ready to meet it.