High above the Shattered Expanse, the sky bent in unnatural patterns. Clouds churned in reverse. Stars blinked in and out like uncertain thoughts. And at the eye of it all stood the Spire of the Vesper Queen—a cathedral of obsidian and bone, perched atop a floating citadel, suspended by nothing but dread and defiance.
Kiel and Myra stood at the edge of a cliff, staring at the floating monolith.
"She built that from the corpses of gods," Myra whispered, half in awe, half in disgust.
"She built herself from them too," Kiel replied, his voice colder than usual. "The third Chime—Despair's Toll—is fused into her throne. And she won't give it up."
"So we take it."
He looked at her, amused. "You make it sound simple."
"No, I make it sound inevitable," she said, smirking.
A moment later, they stepped into a portal formed by the last of the Vault's energy. It deposited them on the outer rim of the citadel, where silence reigned and even shadows seemed to cower.
---
Inside, the Spire pulsed like a living creature.
Towers twisted upward like spines. Choirs of moth-winged acolytes chanted wordless hymns as they floated in orbit around the central sanctum. Every surface shimmered with illusion, and time itself felt untrustworthy.
"She sees us already," Kiel muttered.
"How?"
"She's the Vesper Queen. The last of the Eidolon weavers. Her crown isn't jewelry—it's a mind-hive."
Sure enough, her voice boomed across the chamber, sultry and venomous.
> "Altharion... my fallen star. I wondered when you'd crawl back to my light."
They reached the throne room.
She sat atop a throne of fused glass and memory-stone, her body a shifting form of moth wings, pale gold skin, and eyes like twin moons. Draped in smoke and crowned with living metal, she radiated divine madness.
"Kneel," she commanded.
"No," Kiel said flatly.
The Queen smiled, revealing too many teeth.
"Still sharp. But brittle. You're missing something, Archon."
"Just the last Chime," he said.
She laughed, a sound like silver bells being crushed underfoot.
"You think you can take it?"
Myra stepped forward. "We're not asking."
The Queen's gaze shifted to her, amused. "Oh. The lost daughter of memory. The one they tried to erase. What a charming little rebellion."
Then, without warning, she struck.
---
The battle began with silence—then erupted into a storm.
Illusions shattered reality. Myra's blades carved through false skies. Kiel weaved arcane shields and launched barrages of soulfire. The Queen danced between them, her body splitting and reforming, each movement rewriting the rules of existence.
"You can't kill me," she sang. "I exist in every forgotten dream."
"Good," Kiel growled. "Then this will hurt forever."
He thrust his hand forward, invoking a forbidden glyph he had sworn never to use: Null Brand. The spell severed concepts—cutting through immortality, identity, divinity.
The Queen screamed.
Myra leapt.
With one clean strike, she severed the crown from the Queen's head. The third Chime—the core of the construct—fell into Kiel's hand.
Light exploded.
---
When the glow faded, the Queen's throne was shattered. Her form flickered, no longer divine, just a woman undone.
"You... were mine," she gasped.
"I was never yours," Kiel said. "You were just another liar in a world of masked truths."
He turned to Myra.
"We have all three Chimes. The Vaults have opened. The truth is ours."
Myra nodded. "Then it's time."
"Time for what?"
"To make the World Requiem. And end this farce once and for all."