Cale lay beside Moon, her hand nestled in his. Her presence warmed something deep within him—a quiet heat that spread not from his body, but from his soul.

  It wasn't like it had been with Tiana.

  Strangely, when he thought about Tiana now, the only thing he felt was apathy. No sorrow. No longing. Just a cold absence, like a door long since closed.

  If what he felt for her had been a flicker, what he felt for Moon now was an inferno—calm, steady, all-consuming.

  He pressed his hand to his chest.

  No. This was different. Deeper. More profound. Every time she looked at him with those silvery eyes or brushed against him, something ancient inside him stirred—a memory without form, a bond without words. A feeling of having found something long lost.

  "Why do I feel like this? I barely know her," he thought. But deep down, he already knew who might hold the answer—the towering figure of blackened metal, the sentinel of the void who had once spoken to him like thunder in silence.

  He closed his eyes and reached inward, searching for that presence.

  But there was only silence.

  No voice.

  No vision.

  Just the distant rhythm of his heartbeat—and Moon's hand still resting over it.

  His eyes grew heavy, and sleep gently pulled him under.

  They walked down a corridor vast as a canyon, the ceiling so high it vanished into shadow. The walls and floors were forged from interwoven veins of metal—copper, silver, bronze, and iron—flowing like rivers frozen in place. Crystalline gems pulsed gently from the walls, casting pale glows like constellations. From above, luminescent stones twinkled like stars in a manmade sky.

  Beside him walked the Oracle of the Tides.

  She moved with grace and silence, her dress shimmering as if spun from liquid crystal. He had brought her here—to the Pyrosol Crown—just as he had been commanded.

  His mission was complete.

  But something within him stirred. A disquiet.

  "Tell me, Oracle..." he said, his voice low and metallic, echoing through the sacred corridor. "Why did you come willingly?"

  She did not answer. Her steps continued, calm and precise.

  He didn’t press. His orders had been fulfilled. Nothing more was required.

  And yet—

  A flicker. A pulse of static across the plane of his thoughts. He heard her voice—fractured and distorted like a memory underwater. A name.

  His name.

  But it slipped away.

  Then she spoke aloud.

  "Why do you follow your brother’s orders so blindly?"

  He exhaled. The sound was deep, grating, like millstones grinding in the dark.

  "Because that is why I exist. I am his shield. His sword. A weapon that never breaks, never dulls, never shatters."

  There was pride in his words.

  She stopped.

  He did too, towering over her, shadow stretching long across the etched floor.

  Her eyes met his. Clear, unwavering.

  "I believe you are more than a weapon."

  He looked down at her, plated in armor forged of war and will. A being of steel.

  But she—

  She stood before him like still water beneath the stars. Small. Unafraid.

  Not defiant.

  Just certain.

  "Are you not the same?" he asked. "A tool used by your master’s will?"

  Her gaze softened. "Once. But over time, I understood I was more than what they had written in stone. I am not just a voice. I am a soul. I have beliefs. Desires. Dreams."

  He scoffed, the sound dragging like steel on stone. "And yet you were caged in the Crystal Tower. Trapped. Your dreams did not save you."

  Her eyes dropped to the engraved floor beneath them—swirling with runes too ancient to name. A shadow passed over her face.

  "Then what are we left with, if not the hope of something more? Are we truly just relics to be used until we break? If your brother one day deems you obsolete, would you kneel? Would you let him cast you aside like dull steel?"

  "Yes," he answered.

  She raised her eyes.

  "No," she said softly, firmly. "You will not."

  He said nothing.

  Because he didn’t know.

  She turned and continued walking.

  He remained behind for a heartbeat, her words echoing through the armor around his soul.

  Cracks formed—thin, hairline fractures where doubt slipped in.

  Thoughts he had buried clawed to the surface.

  He told himself they were weaknesses.

  He told himself they were lies.

  He crushed them.

  He was a weapon.

  He was forged to obey.

  And yet…

  He followed her.

  Cale's eyes opened slowly, the remnants of his vision fading like smoke curling into the morning shadows.

  No answers. Only more questions.

  He lay still, staring up at the cracked wooden ceiling of Meli’s home.

  Beside him, Moon slept peacefully, her arm draped gently across his chest. Her face, framed in midnight strands, wore a serene smile.

  He reached over and brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. She stirred slightly, her fingers tightening around his shirt, and the smile on her lips deepened.

  He smiled too, feeling something stir in his chest—a warmth, fragile but real.

  But he couldn’t sleep.

  Elemental reinforcement had changed his body. Rest came quickly, and he no longer needed hours of sleep like he once did. So instead, he sat up slowly, careful not to wake her.

  He closed his eyes and took a steady breath.

  Spirit Bending.

  He reached out—not with his hands, but with his soul.

  And they came.

  Wisps floated in through the cracks in the walls, the floorboards, the very fabric of the city. Some glowed pale green, others soft blue or fiery orange. A quiet tapestry of lost lives drifted into the room, drawn to him like moths to flame.

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  Birds. Dogs. Cats. Children. Elders. Warriors. Bakers. Beggars.

  Elves. Dwarves. Beastkin. Humans. Forgotten souls.

  He listened. Watched their memories unfold behind his eyes.

  He saw the twists of alleyways, the shortcuts through merchant stalls. He knew which faces to trust, which corners to avoid. He saw Meli’s past—her strength, her command in battle, how her hammer had protected others.

  And then... he felt another presence.

  A spirit hovered beyond the rest. Its glow was faded, soft and pale like ash in morning light. A man.

  Cale reached out gently. "I’m here," he whispered.

  The spirit drifted closer, flickering like a dying flame.

  "Name’s Brannik," the man said.

  Cale sifted through the echoes in his mind—memories passed down like whispers. He saw Brannik, younger, his face smudged with soot, laughing over mugs of stew. Always near Desmun.

  One of Desmun’s oldest friends.

  "You passed recently," Cale said quietly.

  Brannik nodded. "A few weeks ago. Old age finally caught up."

  There was a pause. Brannik looked down, as though the weight of his guilt pulled him downward.

  "You’re wondering why I didn’t help him," he said. "When everything fell apart."

  Cale remained silent. He didn’t need to ask.

  Brannik’s voice faltered. “Des and I... we were closer than brothers. And Flora—she was the heart of our team. Brave, sharp-witted, kind to a fault. Everyone loved her. Especially him.

  But there was another. Thorne. One of the strongest miners in Gravemound. Respected. Feared. Entitled. He wanted Flora—wanted her like a possession. He made his intentions clear, too many times. She always refused, politely at first, then more firmly. She was with Desmun. And Desmun... he made her laugh in ways none of us had ever seen.

  Thorne didn’t take rejection well. And in our world, power always had teeth.

  One day, Des and Flora were assigned a dive. Just the two of them. Deeper than we’d ever gone. A sector none of us had mapped. It didn’t feel right.

  Then it happened. The monster came—some ancient horror, hiding in the stone, waiting. We didn’t know it was there. But Thorne did.

  He sent them in knowing what waited.

  She saw it coming. And she shoved Des out of the path. Took the hit herself.

  When they pulled him out... she wasn’t with him.

  Desmun never spoke of that day again. Never needed to. We saw it in his eyes. We saw the light die."

  Brannik’s form flickered as the memory pulled at him like anchors from the past.

  "I should have stood with him. Should’ve shouted the truth until the world listened. But I didn’t. I turned away."

  Cale’s voice was quiet. "Why?"

  Brannik flinched. "Because I had two young ones. The guild warned me—if I said anything, I’d lose everything. My job. My coin. My chance to feed my family. And I... I let fear win. I told myself Desmun would understand. That he was strong enough to weather it. But I was wrong."

  His voice cracked.

  "I saw him after. Walking the streets. A little more hunched. A little more hollow. That man was made of iron—and we let him rust in silence."

  Cale's chest tightened. The sorrow in Brannik’s voice was a slow, heavy chain.

  "He still dreams of Flora," Brannik said. "But he won’t say her name. Not even to himself."

  He looked at Cale, eyes pleading.

  "Tell him... that I’m sorry. That I never stopped thinking about that day. That I should’ve stood by him. If he hates me, I’ll understand. But I’d rather be hated than forgotten."

  Outside, dawn broke.

  The city woke in layers—first the distant thrum of carts on cobblestone, then the rising voices, barked orders, children’s laughter.

  Moon stirred beside him, her fingers curling slightly around his hand.

  Cale looked at her, then turned to Brannik’s fading form.

  "I’ll tell him."

  The spirit gave a tired but grateful smile.

  Then he was gone—a wisp lost to the morning light.

  Gravemound stirred beyond the window.

  And Cale, sitting quietly with Moon’s hand still resting in his.

  Another spirit lingered—one that pulsed with deep regret, its presence raw and trembling.

  Cale turned his attention to it.

  The wisp drifted slowly toward him, dim and gray-blue, a soul long burdened by pain. As Cale reached out, the memories flowed into him—not words, but screams, chains, and the acrid scent of blood.

  A market. Underground. Flickering torchlight and the heavy stench of sweat, rot, and despair.

  He saw it.

  A group of slave traders, their faces like jackals in human skin, grinning as they displayed their newest "assets."

  A mother.

  Three daughters.

  Bound in chains, standing in silence, their eyes wide with fear. The traders paraded them like cattle, boasting of their youth, their purity. They called them virgins as if they were commodities, not human beings.

  The spirit—the man—had been their father.

  He had come for them. Alone.

  The moment he burst through the doorway of the market, they had seen him. The girls gasped. The mother wept.

  And then it all went wrong.

  He fought. Gave everything he had. With a broken blade and hands bleeding from forcing the outer gate open. He cut one down before the others overwhelmed him.

  They laughed as they broke his legs. They made his daughters watch as they crushed his ribs one by one. When he could no longer scream, they dragged him to the edge of the auction circle and tied him by the ankles.

  They sliced his stomach open.

  Spilled his insides like meat onto the stone.

  Still alive, they fed parts of him to the dogs they kept for guarding prisoners.

  And when even the dogs turned away in disgust, they left his body there. Rotting. A warning. A joke.

  The mother was sold later that night.

  The daughters were separated.

  "I failed them," the spirit whispered, its voice nothing more than a trembling echo in the cold. "I told them I would protect them. I told them to be brave. That I would come. And I did. But I wasn’t enough. I wasn’t strong enough."

  Cale clenched his fists. The weight of the memory bore down on him like a mountain. Soulfire ignited around him, blue-white and searing.

  Moon’s eyes shot open.

  Cale’s teeth clenched, a snarl on his lips. The rage inside him felt like a blade fresh from the forge, glowing and sharp.

  And someone would be on the edge of it.

  He would not let this go unanswered.

  "I will find them," he growled through gritted teeth. "I will save them. I promise."

  The spirit said nothing more.

  Then it faded, leaving the room colder than before.

  "What is happening here?!" Meli’s voice rang from the staircase.

  She descended quickly, her wooden leg striking each step with a sharp, rhythmic knock. Her eyes widened at the sight of Cale—sitting at the edge of the cot, blue-white sfire shimmering faintly around him.

  The flames vanished the instant her voice touched him.

  "Desmun didn’t tell me you were a fire mage," she muttered, scanning the room. "I hope you didn’t burn anything."

  She moved quickly, her eyes darting across walls and floorboards. But there were no scorch marks.

  Soulfire left no trace.

  Moon was already kneeling beside Cale, her hand in his. Her presence was steady, grounding.

  Cale took a long breath. The heat in his chest cooled. His fists loosened.

  "I’m sorry," he said, still looking at the ground.

  But Meli wasn’t fooled. She saw the tension still lingering in his shoulders. Something had changed in him—deeply.

  She came closer and paused. Her voice gentled.

  "Whatever happened... you look like you’ve seen something you can’t unsee."

  Cale didn’t respond.

  Meli turned and made her way to the hearth. "Come on then. I’ve stew left from last night. You’ll think clearer with something warm in your stomach."

  They ate quietly. Meli served them generous helpings, sitting across the table with her own bowl. The stew was simple but hearty—meat, roots, herbs. Comforting.

  When they were done, she placed her spoon down with a wooden knock.

  "Listen," she said, meeting Cale’s gaze. "I don’t know what’s pushing you—but be careful. Anger’s useful when you need to move. But it makes a poor guide. Don’t let it drag you somewhere you can’t come back from."

  Cale nodded faintly. "I’ll be careful."

  "Where are you headed?"

  "The nearest library," he said. "We need answers."

  Meli walked them to the door. Her wooden leg tapped hollowly on the floor. She opened the door and let the light pour in.

  "You know where to find me," she said. "If you come back tired, hungry—or worse—I’ll still be here."

  Cale gave her a grateful nod. Moon offered a slight bow.

  Then they stepped outside.

  The wind whispered through Gravemount’s morning streets.

  And the door closed behind them.

  Xentar appeared at Cale’s side, his spectral form pulsing faintly.

  "What was that?" he asked, hovering beside him. "Why did you ignite in flames like that?"

  Cale’s voice was low. "I saw the memories of a beastkin father. What was done to him... what he saw..."

  Xentar floated in silence for a moment, his usually bright glow dimmed. "Those memories must’ve awakened something in you. You’re angry."

  Cale said nothing. He moved through the streets like someone who had lived there all his life—each turn, each alley familiar. In truth, he had walked these streets before.

  Just not in this lifetime.

  The spirits’ memories guided him.

  They walked in silence until a voice broke the air, cracked and weathered like dry leaves.

  "Young man."

  Cale stopped.

  He turned and looked left.

  Beneath the overhang of a crooked building, seated at a wooden table, was an old woman—hunched, wrapped in layers of patchwork cloth, her eyes hidden beneath the brim of a wide, shadowed hat.

  "Care to know your fate?" she asked, her voice creaking like floorboards. "Just one silver. A reading of three. Past, present, and what comes."

  Cale was about to turn away—he had no time for this. No coin to spare.

  But then Moon tugged gently at his sleeve.

  He glanced back.

  Her silver eyes met his, then shifted to the woman. She nodded once.

  Cale hesitated.

  "I’m sorry," he said. "I don’t have any money."

  The old woman gave a dry chuckle. "You’re my first soul today. And the winds say you carry more than most. I’ll make an exception. Just this once."

  Cale glanced at Moon again, who gave the faintest encouraging smile.

  He stepped forward and lowered himself onto the rickety stool across from the old woman.

  She spread a faded velvet cloth across the tabletop, then withdrew a deck of cards. Each one was old, worn at the edges, but the illustrations on them shimmered faintly—each image vibrant with hidden meaning.

  "Three cards," she said. "One for the light that shaped you. One for the shadow you carry. And one for the road ahead."

  Cale nodded.

  The woman shuffled the cards slowly, her fingers moving like weaving thread. Then she stopped.

  "Draw."

  And he did.

  Cale’s hand hovered over the deck before finally selecting a card. He flipped it over and placed it in the first position.

  The old woman leaned forward, her fingers resting lightly on the card’s edge.

  "The Anvil," she whispered, as though naming a sacred relic. "Not born... but forged. Tempered by ages, reforged in silence and pain. Steel remembers its shaping."

  She gestured slowly to the second card, her nails clicking faintly on the cloth.

  Cale drew it and flipped it.

  Her breath caught.

  "The Iron Crown," she murmured, voice thin as mist. "The weight of sovereignty. The scent of old blood. A throne never claimed—but never forgotten. You were not meant to kneel. You were made to command legions... or burn the world trying."

  She extended a hand toward the final card, and Cale turned it.

  The old woman grew still.

  "The Black Sun," she said, almost reverently. "A star that does not give light—but devours it. Endings hidden in beginnings. The seal breaking, the shape returning. Something lost... waking again."

  The shadows lengthened around the table.

  "These are not cards meant for one man," she whispered. "They speak of something vast. Buried by time and memory."

  She finally looked at him. Truly looked.

  She smiled—but it was sad, distant.

  "May the chains that bind you tremble... when you remember who forged them."

  "Then when you awaken fully... may the world be ready."

  Cale blinked.

  He was standing on the side of the street. Moon was beside him, her expression puzzled.

  Cale turned his gaze to the crooked building.

  There was no table.

  No old woman.

  Only shadow and dust where something had been.