Chapter 8: The False Saint
Night returned jagged.
The wind screamed down the broken valleys, carrying whispers that didn't belong to air. Anterz and Elaria moved quickly, putting miles between them and the Mirror Below. Neither spoke of what they'd seen. Not yet.
They camped beneath a collapsed bridge, jagged beams stretching into the sky like the ribs of a dead giant.
Elaria tended the fire—small, smokeless. Her new blade, the pale sword without a name, lay across her knees, reflecting no light.
Anterz stood apart, watching the horizon. Valteris rested across his back, heavy and cold, as if sulking from the presence of the other sword.
"Do you remember anything else?" Elaria asked finally.
"Not clearly," Anterz replied. "But the name… it opened something."
He turned, golden eyes catching flickers of the fire.
"I remember making a choice. To erase myself. To bury ruin. But I don't know why."
Elaria's voice was low. "To stop yourself. Or to stop something worse?"
Anterz didn't answer.
---
In the dead hour of night, the air changed.
Anterz opened his eyes.
The fire was out.
Elaria was gone.
He rose silently, Valteris already whispering.
> "Someone is here."
He moved through the dark like smoke. The stars were gone—hidden behind a red mist curling over the hills.
Then he saw her.
Elaria stood at the base of an old statue, one hand resting against its stone. Her silver blade glowed faintly. She didn't move.
Anterz approached. "Elaria?"
She turned slowly.
But it wasn't her.
The face was hers. The eyes, silver.
But the thing behind them was not Elaria.
---
"You never should've remembered," she said.
Anterz froze.
Valteris screamed in his mind.
> "That is not the girl. That is a vessel. Hollowed."
She stepped closer.
"You were supposed to remain broken. Half-born. A shell."
Anterz raised his blade. "Where is she?"
"She sleeps," the false Elaria said. "Dreaming of stars that never rose. It's better this way."
She smiled.
It was wrong. Too wide. Too calm.
"You hold the blade of ruin. But I remember when it was mine."
Then the land groaned.
The statue behind her cracked.
And the sky turned to blood.
---
From the mist, figures emerged.
They wore white robes stained with ash, their faces covered in masks carved like crying angels. Each held a staff tipped with bone.
The False Saint raised her hands.
"They called me Liraeth, long ago. Saint of Reversal. I fell when the Ruin Lord rose. Now I return to undo your awakening."
Anterz gritted his teeth.
"You were sealed."
"Yes," she smiled. "But so were you."
The cultists began to chant.
The earth pulsed. The stone beneath Anterz's feet fractured with every syllable.
> "Kill her," Valteris growled. "Before the rite completes."
He charged.
---
The cultists moved fast—but not fast enough.
Anterz carved through the first with a single blow, Valteris shrieking as it drank the soul from the masked body. The sword pulsed stronger, feeding on their deaths.
The False Saint did not flinch.
She raised her hand, and a wave of silver fire burst from her palm.
Anterz blocked—barely. The heat seared his skin. His blade drank the magic, but not all of it.
He rolled aside as another bolt shattered the earth beside him.
"Where is she?" he snarled.
The Saint laughed. "Closer than you think."
She pointed to her chest.
> "She's inside. Watching. Helpless."
---
Elaria's voice screamed inside the Saint's throat.
Just once.
"Anterz—don't—!"
It was enough.
He faltered.
The Saint lunged.
Her fingers stabbed toward his heart—blazing with mirrored light.
Anterz twisted just in time, slamming the flat of Valteris into her ribs.
The sound was not of bone breaking—but glass.
The Saint flew backward, crashing into the broken statue.
Her mask cracked down the middle.
Behind it… Elaria's face wept tears of silver.
---
Anterz stopped.
His hands trembled.
> "Strike her!" Valteris howled. "She is a parasite, not a girl!"
But he couldn't move.
The Saint rose, blood trailing from her mouth.
"She's fading," she hissed. "But I can still use her voice. I can still kill you with her hands."
She surged forward again.
This time, the sword did not wait.
It moved on its own.
Anterz felt his body bend to the will of ruin.
He slashed—and the Saint caught the blade with bare hands.
Silver sparks erupted. The ground cracked.
Her hands burned, skin peeling—but she held the blade.
"You think you've won?" she whispered.
"Your soul is still fractured. Your name incomplete."
She leaned in, bleeding, burning, and smiling.
"Do you want the last piece?"
Anterz's eyes widened.
"Say please," she hissed.
---
The sword exploded.
A burst of red-black energy blasted her off him, ripping away what was left of the false face.
Her body hit the ground in flames.
But from the smoke… someone crawled free.
Elaria.
Her real face.
Her real voice.
She was gasping, eyes wild, covered in blood and ash.
"Anterz—"
He caught her.
Held her.
She shook, not from pain—but from something colder.
"I saw her," she whispered. "Inside. In the mirror behind mirrors. She used to serve the stars. Before they fell."
He nodded.
She clutched her pendant.
"She's not the only one who remembers you. Others are waking."
Anterz stared into the sky.
It was turning again—slowly, piece by piece.
The stars were realigning.
> "The world moves toward the same end," Valteris said. "You cannot stop the spiral. You can only decide who leads it."
---
He stood, helping Elaria up.
The last of the cultists were gone—fled into mist, singing something old and mad.
She leaned on him.
"Where do we go now?"
Anterz looked north.
Beyond the hills.
Beyond the broken lights.
Toward the mountain spires still wrapped in storm.
He spoke with calm certainty.
"To the Tower of Pale Fire."
Elaria frowned. "What's there?"
He didn't smile.
But his voice held the edge of memory.
"A god who remembers me."
---
Far away, in a dead cathedral where mirrors lined every wall, a hooded figure watched their reflection.
A hundred versions of Anterz moved across the glass.
Only one was real.
And the reflection whispered:
> "The name returns. So must the war."
The Tower of Pale Fire trembled.
And something began to wake beneath it.
--