The cold here wasn't natural.
It bit deeper than frost or wind—it slipped into your bones and whispered things to your blood. The Bleeding Spire loomed ahead of us, black as night and slick with red mist that oozed from cracks in the stone. It pulsed faintly, as if the entire structure had a heartbeat.
From The Valkyris's observation deck, I could feel it even before we landed. The Crown Mark on my chest itched like fire, pulsing in rhythm with the tower.
"It's alive," I said under my breath.
Cira stepped up beside me, face pale. "Or awake."
We didn't speak again until the ship broke through the final layer of storm clouds and touched down on the frozen cliff that overlooked the structure. The landing ramp opened with a groan, and cold, crimson-tinged mist flooded in.
Kieran flinched. "This place doesn't just feel wrong. It remembers us."
I nodded, gripping the hilt of my blade. "Then let's remind it we don't back down."
Footsteps on Bloodied Snow
The ground crunched beneath our boots—blood-flecked ice dusted with ancient ash. The wind howled through broken statues that dotted the approach, each depicting a faceless being bound in chains, their forms twisted in anguish.
A squad of elite soldiers flanked us, moving in tight formation. Elara walked to my right, her fists already wrapped in mana bindings. Kieran moved like a shadow, blades hidden under a thick cloak. Cira held her weapon at the ready, scanning with a flickering sensor that sparked every few seconds.
"Mana's unstable," she warned. "It's like walking through a wound in reality."
The closer we got to the base of the spire, the worse it became.
Time didn't flow properly here.
One moment we took a step—then we blinked and we were further ahead. Other times we walked for ten minutes and checked our watches only to find a single second had passed.
More than once, I saw flickers of my past self—standing still in the snow, watching me without moving.
And once… I saw a version of myself I didn't recognize.
Older.
Harder.
Crowned in black flame.
It vanished when I blinked.
Entering the Spire
The doorway stood open.
Massive, arched, and rimmed with molten red veins that throbbed in time with the Mark on my chest.
I stepped through first—and nearly collapsed.
My vision blurred. A rush of memories slammed into me, unfiltered, raw. Not mine. Or maybe mine from another life.
I saw war.
Cities burning.
Children screaming.
And above it all… the Chained God, not as a monster—but as a savior wrapped in gold, tears falling from his many eyes.
"You're wrong about me."
"I didn't start the war. I tried to stop it."
"I was their weapon—and when I said no, they broke me."
The visions vanished. My knees hit the stone floor.
Elara caught me.
"You with me?" she asked, voice firm.
I nodded. "He's… showing me things. Trying to sway me."
Kieran frowned. "And is it working?"
I didn't answer.
Because I wasn't sure.
The Maze of Truth
Inside the spire, logic broke apart.
The corridors didn't lead anywhere real. One hallway led us back to where we started. A second one looped forward endlessly. Cira tried to map it, but her readings changed every few steps.
"The space is folding," she said. "We're not moving through distance. We're moving through memory."
"Whose?" Elara asked.
I already knew.
"Mine."
One door opened to reveal my childhood village—the day I learned to summon mana. Another showed the battlefield where I first raised the Crown in my past life, commanding armies that tore entire nations to ash.
Kieran opened one door and found his brother.
Alive.
Laughing.
He didn't say anything. He just shut the door and kept walking.
These weren't traps.
They were temptations.
The Core of the Spire
We finally reached the heart of the spire—a wide circular chamber with no ceiling, only a yawning sky above filled with spiraling clouds and blood-red lightning.
At the center stood the third seal.
Unlike the others, it wasn't cracked.
It was splintered.
Barely held together by a lattice of broken glyphs and golden chains.
And standing before it… was the Harbinger.
He was no longer pretending to be human.
His form shifted as he turned—his arms too long, his cloak made of stars and smoke. A dozen eyes blinked open across his chest, each one focused on me.
"I warned you," he said. "That the truth would break you."
"You only ever showed me half of it," I replied.
He tilted his head. "Then let me finish the story."
The Revelation
The Harbinger raised a hand, and the world around us trembled.
A projection unfolded—a vision stitched together from memory, time, and god-fractured space.
It showed a council of beings—shining, celestial, powerful beyond comprehension. They spoke in light and gesture, their words divine.
And at the center of them stood a young being—golden, pure, wide-eyed.
The Chained God before the chains.
He spoke of peace. Of free will. Of ending the divine cycle of control.
They laughed.
Mocked him.
Tried to silence him.
And when he refused?
They turned on him.
They ripped him into pieces—not because he was evil.
But because he said "no."
"I was the first to choose freedom," the Harbinger said. "And they called it madness."
The Impossible Choice
The seal trembled.
Golden veins snapped.
And I realized what he wanted.
Not just to break the final chain.
But to pass the Crown to me—to make me his replacement.
"You can end the cycle," he whispered. "Wear the Crown not as a jailor… but as a liberator. No more gods. No more seals. Just choice."
Behind me, I felt the tension build.
Kieran stepped forward. "Don't listen to him."
Cira shook her head. "Sylas, this is what he wants. It's manipulation."
Elara didn't speak.
She just looked at me.
Waiting to see what I'd choose.
I walked toward the seal.
One step.
Two.
The Harbinger extended his hand.
"Be more than a tool. Be the one who ends it all."
I reached out—
And pulled the Crown's power into myself.
Not a Weapon. A Beacon.
Light exploded from my body.
Golden. Pure. Not forged by gods, or stolen by tyrants—but forged by choice.
"I won't be your jailor," I said to the Chained God's memory.
"And I won't be your blade," I said to the Harbinger.
"I'll be the wall between both."
With a scream, I unleashed the Crown.
It burned away the false glyphs.
Healed the broken lattice.
Reforged the seal—not as a prison, but as a barrier.
A choice not to forget… but to protect.
The Harbinger howled, his form breaking apart under the Crown's rejection.
He vanished in a storm of stars.
And the seal… held.
Aftermath
We emerged from the spire hours later, battered, bloodied, and changed.
The world felt quieter.
But only for now.
The war wasn't over.
But the game had changed.
And for the first time since this all began… I felt like we had a fighting chance.