The snow turned black near the Echo Pass.
Caelan stood on a ridge above it, the wind screaming like a thousand knives through the narrow valley. The world below was wrong—cracked, warped, shimmering with runes half-buried in frost. A scar in the land where two Weave currents once clashed and never healed.
And in its center: a gate. Or what remained of it.
Twin obsidian pillars, half-toppled, scorched with ancient lettering that shimmered faintly when no one looked at them directly. Whispers curled from the base like smoke, tugging at the back of the mind. Memory. Regret. Hunger.
This was the Ghost Gate—a remnant of the old world. A boundary that even the Hollow Choir had once sealed. And now they stood before it, drawn here by Malvric's final words:
"Aurion sealed something inside. If it stirs, you'll know which part of him you carry."
Fractured Company
Elira stood apart from him, her arms folded, face set like carved stone. She hadn't said much since Shatterbarrow.
Behind them, Rhelan adjusted his crossbow with twitchy fingers, glancing at the gate like it might breathe.
"This place is cursed," he muttered. "Feels like someone's chewing on my soul."
Caelan didn't answer. He was staring at the base of the pillars.
There—beneath the snow—an engraving. Half-faded.
"Let no Echo walk the world twice."
"Echo?" Caelan asked, more to himself.
Elira finally spoke. "Echoes of lives not fully ended. Ghosts made of purpose. Or vengeance."
Rhelan muttered, "Sounds like a fancy word for haunt."
"No," Caelan whispered. "It's something worse."
He stepped forward—and the runes flared blue.
The gate recognized him.
The Weave surged, pulling light and sound into itself. Ice melted in a perfect ring around the pillars, and a cold wind screamed upward from the center.
Elira grabbed his shoulder. "What did you just do?"
Caelan didn't speak. He didn't need to.
The gate opened.
The Chamber Beyond
They stepped through into blackness.
But it wasn't a void—it was memory.
They stood in a great, sunless chamber, frozen mid-collapse. Statues of weeping kings leaned into broken thrones. Bones lay wrapped in royal robes. Candles burned without flame. Every step echoed with other footsteps not their own.
At the far end stood a single figure. Still. Hooded.
Elira whispered, "That's not alive."
Caelan walked forward anyway.
The hooded figure raised its head, and light spilled from beneath the cowl—blue flame, not eyes.
"I have waited," it said. "I have remembered."
Caelan's heart thundered.
"I'm not him," he said. "Not Aurion."
The thing smiled.
"You wear his voice. That is enough."
Ash and Echoes
It told them a story.
Of a city once ruled by Aurion—built atop a Weave fracture, a place where time unraveled and rebuilt itself. Of a betrayal by the Heir of Silence, who broke the timeline, collapsing the Weave there forever.
Aurion had sealed the Gate not to keep something out, but to trap his own echo—a piece of himself too dangerous to walk free.
"A soul can split," said the ghost, "when hatred is deep enough. He locked me here. I remember what he tried to forget."
It stepped forward.
Caelan drew his blade.
Elira shouted, "Caelan, don't listen—"
But the ghost raised a hand. Not to strike—but to offer.
A spark. A memory. A piece of Aurion's fractured soul.
"Take this," it said, "and know what you are. Or leave. And stay blind."
The Choice
Caelan's hands shook.
The memory pulsed—waiting.
Rhelan hissed, "Don't touch it! For the gods' sake, don't—"
"I have to know," Caelan said.
Elira stepped between him and the ghost. "No. You don't. That's the lie. That's the trap. You want to know if you're Aurion? Then write your story. Don't dig up his."
But Caelan's eyes were locked on the flickering flame.
"I need this to fight them," he said. "The Choir. The other Heirs. The Crown."
"You need your mind intact," Elira snapped. "You want to save the world as a ghost?"
For a long moment, silence ruled.
And then…
Caelan stepped forward—and touched the memory.
Burning Light
It was like drowning in fire.
Visions poured through him—battles he never fought, cities he never knew, lovers he never kissed, betrayals that bled his heart dry.
He saw Aurion kneel in a ring of burning kings. He heard the Choir sing as the Weave itself split. He saw a crown of ash fall into a child's crib.
And he saw himself, standing at the edge of time, alone.
Then it was over.
He dropped to his knees, gasping, body steaming with residual Weavelight.
Elira was there, arms catching him before he fell.
"Stupid," she whispered. "So stupid."
"I had to," he croaked. "I had to see."
The Gate Seals Again
The ghost faded.
The chamber collapsed in on itself.
They barely made it through before the Gate cracked in two and buried itself beneath a new wave of black snow.
Caelan stood in the cold wind again, heart thunderstruck.
"I remember his name," he said.
Elira didn't look at him. "Good. Just don't forget your own."
In the Hollow Prince's Chamber
The Hollow Prince screamed.
Something had shifted.
A memory—stolen.
A future—threatened.
He gripped the edge of his throne, blood trickling from his eyes.
"Aurion walks again," he said, voice cold.
Beside him, a cloaked figure—the Pale Sister, First Voice of the Choir—stepped forward.
"Shall we burn the Ashweave sanctums?"
"No. Let them burn themselves."
He smiled.
"Send word to the other Heirs. The Game begins."