The inner sanctum was a chamber of echoes.
Walls etched with the faces of forgotten gods stared down in solemn silence. Their stone eyes wept trails of mineral tears. The air was cold, the silence oppressive. At the chamber's center pulsed the heart of Aerthalin—no longer radiant, but fractured, its crystal light flickering like a dying star.
Caelen's curse resonated with it.
The scar on his chest throbbed with each fading beat.
But now, the pain wasn't just emotional—it was physical. Real. Blackened veins curled up his arms like creeping vines. His breath came in shudders. His vision blurred. Each step forward felt like dragging chains through his soul.
Elira caught his arm. Her face was pale, her voice trembling. "Caelen, you're dying."
He gave her a smile that cracked at the edges. "We all are, in our way."
She shook her head. "Not like this. Not now. Not you."
He reached up, his fingers trembling as they brushed her cheek. "I'll hold on long enough. I promise."
But the lie hung between them.
The curse was devouring him. Not just his strength—his humanity. It numbed everything. Even the pain, even her.
The heart's glow faltered.
And from the darkness came a voice—
Eredan-Mir.
Cold. Vast. Inevitable.
"You cannot save it, Ashbound. You are already lost."
The scar flared, white-hot.
Caelen gritted his teeth. "I'm not done yet."
His words were barely audible. Not a defiance. A prayer.
Elira's hand slipped into his.
Her warmth cut through the numbness like sunlight through winter.
"We'll face him together," she said. "Until the end."
And so they stepped forward.
Toward the broken light.
Toward the end of all things.