Chapter Sixty-Three: The Path of Bones
The Watcher's trail wasn't made of footprints—it was marked by skeletons. Skulls with shattered helms, ribcages speared by rusted pikes, vertebrae coiled like serpents in the dust. It wound through the ruins of once-great cities and across salt-flattened plains where no birds flew, no insects crawled.
Kael didn't speak. His eyes were hard, scanning every ruin, every fragment of what had been. Lira walked beside him, her fingers glowing faintly as she touched walls, stones, and bones—searching for echoes of magic, for voices lost in time.
They arrived at a ruined amphitheater, its marble seats cracked and half-sunken into the earth. Pillars leaned like tired giants, and in the center stood a monolith. Black. Smooth. Covered in names.
"This is where the pact was made," the Watcher's voice called from the shadows, no longer visible. "Where the world turned its back on itself."
Kael approached the monolith. As he neared it, the names glowed faintly—some familiar, most not.
"Do you know what this is?" Lira asked softly.
Kael nodded slowly. "A list. Of those who gave themselves willingly… to something they didn't understand."
The stone pulsed. One of the names lit up brighter than the rest.
Kael Ardyn.
Kael stepped back in shock.
"What—why is your name—?" Lira began.
"I never wrote it," Kael whispered. "I've never been here."
"The world doesn't wait for permission," the Watcher said, its voice now above them. "You carry light strong enough to tear the veil. That alone seals your fate."
Kael clenched his fists, the white aura of his power flickering in agitation. "I didn't choose fate. I chose survival."
The monolith cracked.
A tremor split the earth beneath their feet. Shadows began to swirl from the cracks in the ground—remnants of energy, of lives lost.
"They're not attacking…" Lira noted, holding up a barrier of magic just in case. "They're watching."
"They remember," the Watcher said. "The Endblade carved a scar across this world. But now, another edge rises. One born not from darkness… but defiance."
Kael raised his head. "Then we end the cycle."
The Watcher stepped forward, face still hidden. "If you truly believe that… then you must walk into the Sepulcher of Flame. Alone."
Lira immediately grabbed Kael's arm. "Absolutely not. I'm not letting you go in there alone."
Kael met her gaze. "I have to. You know that."
"I've already lost too many people," she said, her voice shaking.
"I'll come back."
"You better."
The Watcher gestured. "Three days' travel. Follow the river of dust until it flows no more. At the mouth of the flame, your truth waits."
Kael nodded, gripping the hilt of his sword.
Behind him, the wind howled, sweeping away the ash—revealing old murals etched into the stone walls. Murals of battles long past. Of kings. Of monsters. Of a black sword held skyward… and a white blade piercing the heavens.
And in the center… a lone figure, neither king nor god.
But a man.