The air inside the sanctuary hadn't settled since Liora emerged from the Well.
It carried a strange heaviness now—like the world was holding its breath. Even the torches burned quieter, shadows coiling along the cracked walls like they were listening.
Liora stood barefoot at the altar's edge, her palms open, firelight flickering against her skin.
"I need to call the Echo again," she said.
Eliane stepped closer. "Already? You barely slept—"
"It's not about sleep," Liora cut her off, voice low. "The Hollow Flame is… evolving. Every time I breathe, I feel it stretching inside me. If I don't guide it, it'll tear out on its own."
Dareth was less gentle. "And what if the next time it does, someone dies? What if it's one of us?"
Liora didn't answer.
She didn't have to.
Because they all knew the truth: the magic wasn't something she controlled anymore. It was something she negotiated with.
And lately, the price of silence had grown too high.
She drew the soul-sigil in the air—slow, deliberate. The room shifted. The air vibrated.
And from the dark, the Echo answered.
It came like smoke and song, unraveling from the cracks in reality, stitched together from memory and soul. A manifestation of Liora's fused self—her, Callux, and something older. Something unnamed.
"You summon me, and yet you fear what I bring."
Liora met its eyes—mirror shards of flame.
"I don't fear you. I fear what you'll cost me."
"Everything worth having has a price," it whispered. "Your power is blooming now. But if you want to wear it fully, you'll have to break something that matters."
The Echo twisted, and the room pulsed.
Then it showed her.
Visions.
Eliane's face, bathed in blood.
Dareth screaming, impaled on a blade of soulfire.
A city. Burning.
And above it all, Liora herself—floating, radiant and monstrous. Beautiful. Terrifying.
Alone.
"Choose wisely," the Echo rasped. "Power never asks for permission. It only takes."
Then it vanished.
Outside, in the forests bordering the sanctuary, something else was moving.
Yevra.
The youngest of the White Circle, her body no longer human, her spirit hollowed by burned-out magic and righteous vengeance.
She knelt in the roots of a broken stone tree, whispering to a severed head cradled in her arms.
"You were right, Highmaster. She's becoming the fire. But I'll salt the earth before I let her replace you."
Behind her, figures began to emerge. Silent. Pale. Eyes carved with veils.
The Pale Choir.
The Circle's secret enforcers. Bound by death rites. Trained to kill those who defied the Veil.
And they were coming for Liora.
Back in the sanctuary, Eliane had gone silent.
Dareth sharpened a blade he swore he'd never use again.
And Liora stood alone in the prayer chamber, staring into the broken mirror.
"Why did you leave me all those years, Father?" she whispered. "Why hide the truth?"
She didn't expect an answer.
But one came.
The flame inside her flickered—and in it, a voice.
"Because I knew… the world would rather burn you than let you rise."
Her knees buckled.
But she didn't fall.
Not yet.
Night fell hard that evening.
The sanctuary shimmered with protective wards.
But none of them were prepared for the Pale Choir.
They arrived in silence.
Their first strike came before dawn.
A scream.
Then another.
Then—
Boom.
The explosion shattered half the southern wing. The wards buckled. Blood painted the sky.
Liora shot awake, eyes wide.
Eliane was already on her feet, throwing protective sigils.
Dareth roared into the chaos, blade swinging.
But they weren't fast enough.
The Pale Choir was made for this.
They moved like ghosts, their blades singing with soul-poison.
One of them drove a dagger into Eliane's thigh—clean, brutal. She screamed.
Dareth caught another in the neck, but a third impaled him through the side.
Liora's magic exploded before she could think—soulfire, arcing like lightning.
Two Pale Choir burned alive, screaming.
The rest scattered. But they weren't done.
One broke through the barrier and stood before Liora.
His face was calm.
"You were never meant to live past your Rite."
"I didn't ask your permission."
She raised her hand—
But he was faster.
The blade pierced her ribs.
Liora choked.
Not on pain.
On rage.
She reached inside herself—into that endless flame—and unleashed.
The room turned white-hot.
The Pale Choir agent evaporated, reduced to ash.
But the flame didn't stop.
It wanted more.
It took more.
The altar cracked.
The ceiling buckled.
Eliane screamed again.
Dareth slumped, blood pooling beneath him.
And Liora stood in the center, her body glowing like a second sun, her face carved with grief.
"This is what it means to be chosen," she whispered. "This is the price."
The flames finally faded.
The silence that followed was worse than the screams.
Outside, Yevra watched the smoke rise.
"Good," she murmured. "Let it hurt."
She turned to her remaining agents.
"We bleed her slowly. Until there's nothing left but fire and regret."
And in the shadows, something else stirred.
Watching.
Waiting.
Smiling.