The path beyond the barracks was not a hallway. It was a threshold—one that twisted space like thread around memory.
They walked in silence through caverns not carved, but grown—walls slick with liquid crystal, reflecting moments not their own. Shadows whispered, but none reached them.
Then, suddenly, the ground beneath their feet warmed. Light seeped through cracks in the cave floor—blue, green, and gold—until the tunnel ended in a mouth of stone and air, and the canyon beyond unfolded like a sigh too long held.
And there it was.
A breath caught—maybe his, maybe everyone's. The kind of silence that followed revelation, not threat.
Qaritas felt the world soften.
Not in weakness.
In mercy.
His shoulders, clenched since the last realm, finally dropped. His breath caught in his throat—not from fear, but from the unfamiliar weightlessness of safety.
But peace didn't sit clean in his bones. Part of him still checked corners. Still listened for screams. The quiet wasn't trust—it was a test. He didn't know if he'd earned this kind of silence. Only that it hadn't turned on him—yet.
They had walked through fire, through bones that whispered and gods that lied. But now, from the mouth of the stone path that spilled down the mountainside, he saw something impossible.
Light. Gentle and strange. Glowing from beneath the lake's surface like the breath of a dreaming leviathan.
Deepcrest.
"Not much farther," Zcain said, voice a silken blend of ease and elegance. He gazed out over the glowing lake.
"Deepcrest," he whispered, like naming a memory. "The village awaits below. We'll rest there tonight, and tomorrow we travel to Taeterra."
Zcain's gaze lingered on the glowing lake as if it whispered something only he could hear. For a heartbeat, his posture faltered—just enough for Qaritas to wonder what haunted him beneath all that silk. A man doesn't wear stillness like that unless he's wrestled with storms.
Qaritas had heard the name before. Whispers. Warnings. Taeterra wasn't a destination—it was a reckoning. The kind that stripped you bare and asked what was left when the gods stopped watching.
Taeterra wasn't just history. It held the pieces of them all—the ones they'd left behind, and the ones they were too afraid to become. He didn't know if he'd recognize what waited for him there. Or if he'd survive meeting it.
He exhaled. The mountain waited—and so did the man leading them.
Zcain moved like an afterthought—hands folded behind his back, coat perfectly pressed despite the chaos they'd emerged from. Always polished. Always calm. As if he weren't forged from the same grief as the rest of them.
Qaritas watched him walk ahead, graceful as a man who had never once tripped on anything that wasn't a trap he'd laid himself.
The descent down the path revealed the lake like a secret unwrapping. Bioluminescent vines curled along the stone, pulsing gently as they passed. Qaritas thought, briefly, of veins. Of hearts. Of memory.
He didn't know if it was beautiful or terrifying—that the path looked like something living.
The mountain path curved gently downward into a wilderness that didn't look touched by time.
The grass shimmered deep green, veined with silver-blue threads that pulsed like starlight.
Charcoal-barked trees loomed on either side, their leaves glowing soft violet and cobalt in the dusk.
Above, the sky stretched ancient and wide—amethyst streaked with gold, like fire that had forgotten how to burn.
Just beyond the twilight haze, a spiral of stars twisted slowly across the sky—subtle, but too precise to be chance.
Qaritas froze.
He'd seen that shape once before—etched into the bone walls of the Hellbound, flaring over the glyph of unmaking. A warning dressed as beauty.
A map of what comes next.
Dusk bled into deeper violet as they neared the village. Above them, even the stars seemed to stir—as if readying themselves to bear witness.
The landscape moved with a dreamlike rhythm. Every step forward felt like descending not just toward a village—older than names.
At the bottom, Deepcrest flickered like a dream remembered too clearly.
The village breathed.
Children danced, glow-fronds tangled in their hair. Laughter spilled across bridges woven from bone and mineral.
The air shimmered with warmth and scent—steam, salt, and something floral. Glowing glass orbs hung overhead, catching the music like prisms.
A child brushed past Qaritas, laughing, a strand of glowing vine trailing behind like a comet's tail.
Another child veered toward Niraí—small, bright-eyed, fearless. They reached up, placing a single petal—woven through with faintly glowing thread—into her palm. No words. Just a grin that didn't ask permission. Niraí stared at it. Not with hostility, but... confusion. Her fingers didn't close around it. They hovered, trembling slightly, unsure if this was a threat disguised as kindness, or a kindness she'd forgotten how to accept. The petal pulsed once, like it had recognized her grief and still wanted to stay. For the first time in centuries, she didn't move to destroy it. She simply… kept it.
Not everyone accepted the peace so easily.
Daviyi stood at the edge of the village square, arms crossed, shoulders tense.
"I don't like it," she murmured.
Komus glanced at her. "Too quiet?"
"No," she said, eyes flicking to the glowing vines overhead. "Too… soft. Like the air's trying to make me forget what sharp feels like."
Komus's jaw tensed. "Maybe that's the point. To let go."
Daviyi didn't look at him. "I've seen what happens when you forget too soon. You bleed easier. Trust faster. Die slower."
He stepped closer—carefully, like approaching a wounded animal.
"No one's asking you to forget, Daviyi. Just... to rest."
She didn't answer right away. Just stared as a child brushed past her, laughter trailing like music on thread.
Her voice came quieter then, cracked at the edges.
"I don't know how."
Komus didn't try to fix it. Just stood beside her, silent.
They didn't move.
But for a moment, they didn't leave either.
It caught briefly around his wrist—warm, pulsing softly like a heartbeat. He didn't untangle it. He watched it drift away, the light lingering on his skin like a blessing he didn't know how to keep.
But when he looked down, a single glass bead glowed faintly in his palm—woven into a loop of the vine, knotted at the base with mineral thread.
He hadn't seen the child leave it. He didn't remember closing his hand around it. But it was there—soft, warm, alive.
He curled his fingers around it, gently. Something to keep. Something that remembered him.
And there was music.
Strange, echoing music.
The Echo Chasm sang with the voices of hundreds—some real, some looped, some memories carved into the stone.
Daviyi didn't take the offered flower.
"It's too quiet here," she murmured, more to herself than the others.
Niraí shot her a glance—not judgmental, just tired.
"Not all traps wear teeth," Daviyi muttered. "Some wear music."
But she didn't walk away.
She just tucked the flower behind her ear with a trembling hand
"It's a festival?" Niraí asked, blinking.
Zcain nodded. "Yes. And we're lucky—thanks to my brother Rykhan, time here flows... generously."
"This night," he said, gesturing to the celebration below, "marks the beginning of the Festival of the Fallen Stars. It honors loss—and the courage to continue."
He turned slightly, gesturing toward the horizon. "Time here flows like a dream—slow within, swift without. A year of breath in a day's blink beyond. It's a gift of balance—and necessity. Rest must come quickly, or not at all."
Niraí frowned. "Then we could lose time here?"
"No," Zcain said. "We gain it. That's why we came. One night here, and you'll feel as though you've had months to breathe."
He paused, then smiled. "We'll travel by ferry tomorrow to meet the others at Taeterra. But first, we eat. Then, we let the weary dance."
Komus raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Taeterra. Never heard of it."
Daviyi nodded, arms crossed. "Same. Doesn't show up on any star-maps. Not even in myth."
Zcain turned slightly, smile soft but unreadable. "You wouldn't have. Only Nimarza, myself, and the other Ascendant children know it exists."
Cree tilted their head. "You built it, didn't you? But what is it—a city?"
"It's a vertical world," Zcain explained, voice dropping. "Over fifty thousand feet high. Two hundred floors. Each one a different biome."
Komus frowned, folding his arms. "Then what is it?"
Qaritas shifted, his breath catching slightly. "A gauntlet."
"Not just that," Zcain said. "A mirror."
Niraí scowled. "So it reveals what we're hiding."
Zcain nodded. "Yes. And most don't survive what they find."
He paused before continuing. "Its base rests on a crystalline lake that stretches for miles. A waterfall feeds it—so ancient that the spray hums with old magic. And above it all…"
He paused.
"Aertrhum," Nimarza finished for him. "The Celestial Spire. No one knows where it came from. It twists slowly above Taeterra, not reflecting light—but memory. It's alive. And it remembers everything."
Niraí narrowed her eyes. "And we're going there?"
Zcain looked over the lake, his expression quiet. "Yes. Because Taeterra doesn't just train Ascendants—it reveals what they're hiding. Each floor is unique and different in its own way. And deadly as well"
Komus folded his arms, tone dry. "Great. A tower built as a death trap."
Daviyi blinked, then asked quietly, "Why create such a place?"
Zcain nodded once. "We didn't just build it—we forged it. From will, grief, and the kind of magic that only rises when gods fall."
"But it wasn't just for the Ascendant children," Zcain said, voice low and heavy. "I built Taeterra to break something Ecayrous left inside me,"
His voice quieter now. "A curse. One that doesn't chain the body—it severs the soul."
He paused, before looking at Ayla. "When you died, Mother… he rewrote me. Not as a son. As a weapon."
"I've been trying to undo it ever since. For eons. I trained the Ascendant children not just to protect them—but because I knew I'd need an army strong enough to do what I can't: destroy the Fragments of Eon."
"Because I can't kill them. Not without losing myself."
His eyes dropped—not in shame, but in memory.
"The curse doesn't stop me from fighting. It just makes sure I can't choose who I fight. It hijacks my body. My threads. I become… something else."
"I tried once. I nearly killed my siblings."
His breath trembled. "I don't want to be a god who forgets what love feels like just because his hands remember war."
"So I build. I teach. I wait."
He looked up again. "And I hope to the stars that you all learn faster than I did."
Zcain's gaze dropped—not in avoidance, but in memory. He glanced at Ayla's hands. She was strong now, whole—but he'd seen them bloodied and still. His lips parted, then pressed into a tight line, like the rest of the truth tasted bitter.
A hush followed, the kind that didn't need silence to feel heavy.
Ayla's gaze didn't move from the lake below. "Do we start today?"
"No," Zcain said. "Tomorrow, we begin. Not by forgetting what broke us—but by using it. But tonight we celebrate your arrival. Welcome to the war."
For a moment, no one spoke. Even the air around them seemed to hold its breath—afraid that breaking the silence might break him too.
Zcain smiled, glancing toward Ayla. "The celebration of the Fallen Stars. It began as a way to mourn your death, Mother."
Komus didn't smile. His gaze lingered on Zcain, unreadable. There were too many words he'd never spoken aloud—and this wasn't the night to dig them up. Instead, he nodded once. Small. Enough.
Cree paused as music swirled into the square—percussion made from bone-flutes and vibrating crystal bowls. A few villagers formed a spinning chain of motion—arms lifted, feet sweeping through spiraled steps like they were tracing the stars above. Cree hesitated.
Then tried.
Zcain sighed. Cree's first step tangled with the second. Their second step nearly knocked over a fruit cart.
Laughter followed—but not cruel. One child took Cree's hand and helped guide them into the rhythm.
Cree grinned. "I'm better with fire than feet," they muttered. The child just laughed. "Then make your missteps burn prettier."
Ayla's expression shifted. She looked toward him. "It's strange… to be mourned by those I never met."
"And now?"
Zcain turned to Qaritas. His tone remained gentle, but his eyes gleamed.
"Now it's the day we remember the universes lost to the Fragments of Eon and prepare to take it back."
He paused.
"I don't plan to break you the way Ecayrous wants. I'm preparing you for war. To take back everything we lost."
He let the words hang, then added—lighter this time:
"But that's tomorrow's problem."
The words sank.
Everyone stopped walking. Zcain cleared his throat before offering a gentlemanly half-bow.
"Which is why they celebrate." His voice warmed.
"Let the weary dance. We've earned a moment—and those are rarer than victory."
Zcain's smile lingered longer than usual. Not for show. Not for control. Just for the quiet.
The music faded into the distance. A softer rhythm took hold—one made of breath, memory, and things not said aloud.
"I want to build a perfect world," Zcain said quietly, to no one in particular. "But perfection's a lie told by tyrants and idealists. Deepcrest is neither. It's just a place where sorrow learned to dance and helps gods heal from their scars."
The words hovered—not grand, but honest. Like something too human to echo inside gods.
"But even here, healing isn't peace. It's preparation. Taeterra is where we learn what the Fragments fear most: gods who remember who they were before the chains."
Qaritas stayed quiet.
But part of him—something deep and unused to awe—leaned forward.
Hydeius stood a few paces behind, unmoving. His arms, long coiled like spears, finally dropped to his sides. The tension didn't release—it evaporated. Slowly. He blinked, frowning faintly, as if surprised by the sudden quiet in his own body.
No pressure.
No roar beneath the skin.
Just breath. He hadn't noticed how often he clenched his jaw until now. A child's laughter caught on the breeze, and his fingers twitched—instinctively reaching for a blade that didn't need drawing. Peace was an unfamiliar gravity. It didn't weigh. It floated. And he wasn't sure how to wear it.
He reached for the strap of his shoulder guard and loosened it—just enough to feel the air against skin. The movement felt foreign, almost wrong. But no one flinched. No threat stirred.
He didn't remove the whole thing —not yet. But he let the weight shift.
Let the armor rest lighter on his frame.
Just enough to remember what it felt like not to brace.
He didn't remember the last time he felt rest without suspicion. Rest was usually bait—prelude to betrayal or pain.
But this felt different.
And yet, when the breeze shifted, Qaritas still smelled ash. Not smoke. Not fire. Just memory—burned into the marrow of his senses. For a heartbeat, the scent dragged him back to the roar of the arena, the chant for blood. His hand twitched near his blade. Reflex. Not fear. Just residue.
Something ancient had recognized him. And decided not to flinch.
------------------------------------------------
Somewhere beneath the calm, Qaritas felt it again—that hollow where his name used to mean something. And soon, in Taeterra, he would have to fill it.
He didn't know if peace could last. For the first time in lifetimes, he didn't flinch at the thought of it.
He looked down at the glass-bead loop in his palm, still glowing faintly. A gift, unasked for.
The bead pulsed—once, soft as breath.
And suddenly—he wasn't in Deepcrest.
He was kneeling.
Not here. Not now. Somewhere older. Somewhere cruel.
The scent of ash. The roar of a crowd chanting his name—Shadowborn—not in reverence, but demand.
And then—
A whisper. Soft. Close. A child's voice, cracked by the weight of remembering.
"Qari... don't forget who you were."
The glow flickered again—stronger this time.
Then gone.
He blinked.
Back in the village.
But his hand had curled tightly around the bead. Protectively. Like it was the only thing that knew the truth.
Qaritas hesitated, then did something he hadn't done in cycles—he unclipped the blade from his hip. Not to clean it. Not to inspect the edge. He simply… set it down.
A voice spoke beside him—old, soft, laced with lichen and time. One of the villagers, a woman with hair like silver moss and eyes that shimmered pale green. She nodded toward the bead.
"They glow brightest when you're about to forget something important."
Then she walked away. No further explanation. Just a truth offered like a warning folded in kindness.
Qaritas glanced at the bead again. It pulsed once. Faint. But not random. Like something unfinished still echoed in his bones.
Beside him, a smooth stone warmed by festival light.
It wasn't surrender.
It was trust—quiet and undeserved.
Harder than battle.
The silence didn't threaten.
It allowed something he'd nearly forgotten: the right to breathe.