The wind howled like a living thing as they crossed the jagged foothills of the Dreadline Mountains. Jagged stone teeth jutted from the earth, ancient and sharp, warning travelers to turn back. But Aria, Lyrien, and Thorne pressed on, driven by a force stronger than fear—purpose.
In her satchel, Aria carried two shards of the Amulet of Light. They hummed softly, warm even in the bitter cold. Each piece she found made her feel more... herself. Not just a blacksmith's apprentice. Not just the girl from Brindlemark. But something more. Something whole.
Their next destination was Myr's End, a city once known for its towering spires and silver towers that scraped the sky. Now, it was a ruin. A ghost city frozen in time. Lyrien had explained it as they camped on the cliffs above the valley.
"Myr's End was swallowed by magic," he said, warming his hands by the fire. "Centuries ago, its mages tried to harness the stars. It worked—until it didn't. The stars turned on them."
"That... doesn't sound promising," Thorne muttered, chewing on dried meat.
"They say the sky never looks right there," Lyrien continued. "That gravity bends. That time folds in on itself."
Aria looked out over the dark valley where the ruins lay. "Then we better not stay long."
They reached the city by midday. Or what they thought was midday—already, the sky was wrong. The sun flickered, half-submerged in clouds that didn't move. One moment it was bright; the next, dim. It felt like they'd walked into a dream where the world no longer followed rules.
The spires still stood, impossibly tall and thin, twisted like glass pulled in a storm. Their surfaces shimmered, reflecting not just the world around them, but other places—deserts, oceans, burning skies. Aria caught a glimpse of herself in one and paused. Her reflection didn't move the way she did. It stood still, watching.
"That's unsettling," she murmured.
Lyrien touched the base of the spire. "These towers were built as magical conduits. Focus points for celestial magic. But they're broken now. The power still lingers—but without control."
The streets of Myr's End were quiet. Dust coated the cobblestones. Statues had crumbled. Broken fountains still shimmered faintly with traces of arcane energy. No birds. No wind. Just silence—and echoes of a city that had tried to touch the heavens and been burned for it.
They moved carefully, Aria's hand resting near her sword's hilt.
The map led them toward the central tower—the tallest spire, surrounded by a circle of shattered buildings. It was there, supposedly, that the next fragment of the Amulet lay. But they had barely entered the circle when a voice rang out.
"You shouldn't have come."
They turned.
At the base of the tower stood a woman. Her cloak was silver, embroidered with constellations. Her eyes glowed like twin moons. But there was something wrong about her presence—like she wasn't fully there. Her form shimmered at the edges, like a mirage.
"I am the Watcher of Myr's End," she said. "Sworn to protect what remains."
"We seek the shard," Aria said, stepping forward.
"I know," the woman said. "Many have tried. All failed. All are part of me now."
Suddenly, dozens of ghostly figures appeared—trapped souls, former adventurers, mages, warriors. Their faces were blank, their eyes filled with starlight. They hovered in a ring around the spire, blocking the path.
"You can't fight them," Lyrien whispered. "They're memories, not men."
"Then how do we get past?" Thorne growled.
Aria looked at the Watcher. "There's always a trial. What's this one?"
The Watcher tilted her head. "Truth."
The world shifted.
Aria blinked—and she was no longer in Myr's End.
She stood in Brindlemark, the forge roaring behind her. The scent of hot iron filled her nose. Her father was alive, hammering metal beside her. Her mother laughed from the doorway.
It was everything she had lost. Returned.
Too perfect.
"Come home," her father said. "It's over now. The world is safe."
Aria's fingers curled around the amulet. "This isn't real."
"Isn't it?" her mother asked, stepping forward. "Wouldn't it be better than what's coming? Better than war, than death? You've done enough."
"I haven't," Aria whispered. "I want this. But I didn't earn it. Not yet."
The forge faded.
She was back in Myr's End, gasping. Lyrien and Thorne stood nearby, also shaken—clearly, they had faced their own illusions.
The Watcher regarded her silently.
"You saw it," Aria said. "What you wanted most. But I let it go."
The Watcher nodded slowly. "Then you may pass."
The ring of souls parted.
They entered the tower.
Inside, the air pulsed with ancient magic. Runes lit the walls. Starlight filtered through the glass ceiling, painting the floor with constellations that shifted as they walked. At the center, atop a pedestal of obsidian, floated the third shard.
Aria reached for it—and time bent.
In an instant, she saw a hundred futures. A thousand versions of herself. Some victorious. Some broken. One where she held the Amulet—but was alone. One where the Shadow stood over Brindlemark in flames.
She gritted her teeth and grabbed the shard.
Light surged through her body. But this time, something changed. She didn't just feel the power—she understood it. Each shard added more to her—not just strength, but knowledge. Pieces of the past. Of Tenebrous itself.
She staggered as the tower trembled.
"We have to go!" Lyrien shouted.
They ran. The tower collapsed behind them, the magic unraveling. The ghosts faded. The stars blinked out.
By the time they reached the city's edge, the sun was rising. The real sun. The sky had righted itself.
Three shards now.
And a warning in Aria's heart:
The more light she gathered, the darker the Shadow became.