The forest no longer whispered.
It watched.
Every branch along the Weeping Woods bowed inward, and every shadow seemed to pull back when Jonas passed—not out of reverence, but out of fear. This was no longer the world the Ashfang knew. This was Oshael's domain. A forgotten kingdom, soaked in centuries of silence and betrayal.
Fog poured through the trees like breath from a dying god. It dulled color, muffled sound, and shrouded truth.
Jonas felt the change in his bones. The air tasted metallic. The very ground seemed to recoil beneath each step of his boots.
The others felt it too.
Elric tightened his grip on his dual blades. Elias, usually calm, had his hand on the hilt of his ceremonial dagger, reciting old protection verses under his breath. Elena walked slightly ahead of the others, spear drawn, every muscle coiled as if expecting the trees themselves to attack.
They moved as one—tight, alert, and silent.
And through it all, the mark on Jonas's chest pulsed steadily. Not painful, not burning, but… hungry.
They reached a clearing where the trees bowed away from a path of black stone. Broken statues lined both sides—some shattered at the neck, others eroded beyond recognition.
Elias knelt and touched the stone with reverent fingers.
"This is it. The Mournstone Road. The last path to the gates of Oshael."
"How far?" Jonas asked.
Elias looked up at the fog.
"Time moves differently here. Could be hours. Could be days."
Jonas's jaw tightened. "Then we don't stop."
As they followed the road, the world around them twisted.
The deeper they went, the more distorted the land became. Time bent. Day bled into night and then back again. Trees grew sideways. The air grew colder, then hot, then wet like breath on skin.
And the statues… began to whisper.
At first, Jonas thought it was wind. But the voices grew louder—and closer.
They didn't speak in words.
They wept.
Each statue was crying. Thin streams of dark water trickled from their hollow eyes, pooling at their bases, seeping into the black stone of the path.
Jonas paused near one—a broken warrior holding a severed crown in its lap.
His mark pulsed.
And in a flash of something not quite vision, not quite dream—
He saw himself, bound in chains made of silver fire, kneeling before a throne of bone and moons.
A voice echoed in his skull:
> "You do not walk to the gates… you return."
Night fell again, though none of them had eaten or slept.
Still, they pressed forward.
They passed a ruined archway with a single word carved into its center: "Remembrance."
Elias halted. "We're near."
"Near what?" Elric muttered, eyes scanning the mist.
Elias didn't answer.
Because they all saw it at once.
The Trial of Memory.
It was a field, wide and perfectly circular. At the center floated hundreds of bodies—men, women, wolves, children—all suspended in the air, all mouths agape, frozen in screams.
The fog parted like a curtain, revealing ancient runes carved into the earth around them. The words shifted with every heartbeat.
Jonas's throat dried.
"They're not dead," Elena whispered.
"No," Elias said. "They're trapped. Living memories of betrayal."
Jonas took a step forward.
Elias grabbed his arm. "You can't enter alone."
"I have to."
"Jonas—"
"I was born of this bloodline," Jonas said, his voice steel. "Their curse is my inheritance. If I don't pass, none of us do."
Elena stepped forward. "Then I'm going with you."
Jonas opened his mouth to protest, but she shook her head.
"Don't argue. Just walk."
They stepped into the field together.
Instantly, the world changed.
Jonas blinked—and he was somewhere else.
No forest. No fog.
A palace of black obsidian, towering under a red moon. The walls bled shadow. The floor pulsed like a beating heart.
Elena was gone.
He stood in an empty throne room. At the far end sat a figure cloaked in whispering tendrils of smoke. Its face was hidden behind a wolf-bone mask. Its voice sounded like his own, echoed in reverse.
> "You have come, Jonas of Kaladorn. But not to claim. To answer."
"Answer what?"
The figure rose.
"You carry the mark of the First Fang. The blood that began the end."
"I didn't choose this."
"You are the echo of a choice made before you were born."
The figure raised a hand.
And from the floor, a memory emerged.
Jonas saw a battlefield—not recent, not ancient—something in between.
Thousands of Whisperfang warriors marched into Kaladorn under banners of blood and vengeance.
But they weren't defending the realm.
They were destroying it.
> "They allied with the Hollow King," the voice said. "They broke the Pact. They offered blood for power. You are their heir."
Jonas fell to his knees.
"No…"
"You are the last Whisperfang. And only your howl can silence what they unleashed."
In the real world, Elena stood in the circle, watching Jonas convulse. Blood leaked from his ears. His eyes rolled back.
"Come back to me…" she whispered.
The floating bodies twisted toward her.
One opened its eyes.
It was her.
A version of herself, dead-eyed, mouth torn open, covered in blood.
The ghost reached for her.
"You fail him."
Elena raised her blade.
"No. I protect him."
The ghost lunged.
Elena stabbed upward—the mist screamed.
In the vision, Jonas rose.
"I will not carry their guilt."
The figure removed its mask.
It was Jonas.
Older.
Wiser.
Broken.
"You don't have to," it said.
"But you must remember."
Jonas collapsed as the vision ended.
Elena caught him.
The fog cleared.
The Trial of Memory was over.
The floating bodies turned to ash.
The black path reformed.
And in the distance…
They saw the Gates of Oshael.
They marched in silence.
The gates towered over them—twin monoliths of silver and obsidian, carved with runes that bled light. Between them, a tear in the air shimmered—not a door, not a portal. A scar in reality.
As they approached, the mark on Jonas's chest exploded with light.
The gates groaned.
Ancient voices echoed from beyond:
> "Whose blood speaks for Oshael?"
Jonas stepped forward.
"I am the last of the Whisperfang."
"I am the howl that ends silence."
"I am the blade that remembers."
The gates screamed open.
Inside lay a city wrapped in ghostlight—buildings made of stone and bone, empty towers humming with lost voices.
No guards.
No citizens.
Only memory.
At the city's center rose a temple—black, vast, and pulsing with moonfire.
Jonas took one step inside—
And far, far away, across broken kingdoms and ancient ruins, the Hollow King sat up in his throne of teeth.
He turned toward Oshael.
And said one word:
> "Begin."