Chapter 2: The Hall That Burns but Does Not Burn
The city was quieter at sundown.
The sky bled violet and copper, the light curling like a dying flame over Ydrael's broken rooftops. Sol moved through streets that seemed to fold inward—alleyways that twisted, doorways that disappeared when you turned to look again. The notice had said: Tier Three, Hall of Ink and Flame. He didn't know what "Tier Three" meant.
But his feet moved anyway.
Like they remembered a path his mind had lost.
The Door Without a Door
He found it in a place that didn't exist on any map.
An alley tucked between two buildings that shouldn't have fit one.
The space was too narrow, yet it swallowed him whole. The cobblestones gave way to ash. The air grew heavier, thicker, laced with something metallic—like ink, or old blood.
At the end of the alley was a wall.
Blank. Smooth. Featureless.
Until Sol blinked.
And saw the flame.
It wasn't a torch. It didn't burn anything. Just a flicker of black fire, dancing mid-air. It hissed softly, like parchment crumbling.
He reached out.
And the wall rippled like water.
He stepped through.
The Hall of Ink and Flame
The chamber beyond defied space.
It was a vast library, cathedral, forge, and courtroom all in one—an impossible place carved from obsidian walls and molten light. Scrolls floated mid-air like birds. Books chained to pedestals whispered in unknown tongues. Ink dripped from the ceiling, vanishing before it touched the floor. Strange glyphs crawled across the pillars, rearranging themselves when not watched.
And at the far end, a throne.
Not the Throne.
But one made of ash and melted script, burning without heat. Empty.
The room pulsed with presence.
"You came," a voice said behind him.
Sol turned fast.
A figure stood by one of the molten pillars, half-wrapped in shadows that flickered like torn cloth. A long coat hung from their frame, stitched with glowing threads. Their left hand was covered in what looked like moving calligraphy. Their eyes—no whites, only ink and gold—watched Sol with amusement and caution.
"You don't even know what you are, do you?"
Sol narrowed his eyes. "You're a Pactbearer."
"I am," the figure said. "And so are you. Poorly made, half-awakened... but it's in you. I saw the Thread."
Sol hesitated. "What is this place?"
"The Hall of Ink and Flame," the Pactbearer said. "Where those chosen by broken gods begin their descent."
They took a few steps closer.
"You were Called. That means something chose you. Or perhaps something... escaped through you."
Sol's skin crawled.
"The Trial will begin soon. If you survive, you might remember why you're afraid of your own name."
Glimpse of What's to Come
The Pactbearer held out a hand. Their skin flickered, shadows moving like snakes across veins.
"I'm Kael. Pactbearer of the Eighth Echo."
Sol didn't take the hand.
"I don't want to be part of this."
Kael tilted his head, smiled with something bitter.
"Neither did any of us. But the Throne doesn't care what we want. It only whispers. And those who don't listen…"He pointed to a melted statue near the wall."…don't stay human for long."
Before Sol could speak, the Hall trembled.
Glyphs on the pillars surged. Flames curled around the throne. A shape flickered inside the black fire—a symbol made of three interlocked circles, each one spinning in opposite directions.
Kael stepped back. "Your Trial begins now."