Deep inside the Crystal Spire, the Starlit Sanctum was a cavernous chamber that shimmered in the midday glow of Aetherion, its walls carved with runes of starlight that pulsed like living veins. Ethan Cole, wearing the skin of Marcus Reed, stood on a platform of polished obsidian. The dried blood from yesterday's void-skirmish at the Ninth Gate had made his acolyte tunic stiff. His wrist bore the faint burn of his gatekeeper sigil, a reminder of the damage caused by the surge rune—his wounds were raw but bandaged, and his chest still ached. With her silver locks tightly tied, Sylra Varn turned to face him, her eyes piercing with unasked questions and her blade sheathed in starlight. "Pay attention, Marcus," she said in a steady yet abrasive tone. "More than your blade is put to the test in the Sanctum's trials."
Ethan's thoughts were racing, and Lirien's murmured theory clashed with Valthor's stare—Are you stable? Zorathys, imprisoned in the tenth gate of Nullvox. Is it Valthor's icy smile or Lirien's shaking hands that held the next clue, a lifeline against the traitor's shadow, in the journal concealed in his quarters? An unseen hand called forth fifty Voidspawn and two Star-eaters from the void-skirmish, screaming escalation as Zorathys's stirring became a burden on his soul. In the Sanctum, a gatekeeper's crucible, Sylra's training now required accuracy and team tactics against a simulated Voidspawn. Though his transmigration was a secret more weighty than his blade, Ethan would fight to prove himself even though he wasn't Marcus.
Sylra pointed to the center of the platform, where a starlit altar blazed with spiraling runes. According to her, "the Sanctum invokes dangers from the gates' memory." "Voidspawn, drawn from Nullvox's echo. We fight together—seal, strike, cover. We are stabilized by your surge rune. Her eyes lingered, doubt flitting from her question that remained unanswered: What aren't you telling me? Nodding, Ethan held his blade tight, the spiral of the surge rune clear in his mind, its Dawn War beginnings—Serathys's weaving to seal multiversal rifts—a momentary solace.
"Start!" Sylra tapped the altar and yelled. A Voidspawn formed out of the starlight, big, eyeless, shard-limbs glittering, its void-hum sending chills down Ethan's spine. Ichor seeped like black veins through the pulsing walls of the Sanctum, which resembled the obsidian arch of the Ninth Gate. With a sharp voice and a flashing blade, Sylra sprang to her left. Marcus, flank to the right! Pull out its strike! Ethan shifted, his boots slipping, his blade up, but the Voidspawn swung forward, its claws cutting. Rolling, he felt the pain flare as the obsidian scraped his injured back. Sylra's blade carved its flank, ichor spraying, her shout clear: "Rune, now!"
Starlight glowed as Ethan traced the surge rune in midair, but his chest seized as the spiral of the rune faltered. Marcus's memory flashed: Runes failing, an elder's voice from the Council—You've seen too much. With a roar, the Voidspawn grazed Ethan's arm with its claws, causing blood to flow. Sylra's glare was intense as her blade deflected another blow. "Come on, Marcus! Cover me!" Sylra was able to weave a lattice of starlight, pinning the beast's limbs as Ethan steadied and slashed his blade to draw it in. With blinding pain, he traced the rune once more, but the spiral flickered and the starlight dimmed. Ethan was thrown against a wall as the Voidspawn shattered free and smashed his chest with its shard-limb. His breath was ragged, his vision blackened.
The platform was flooded with ichor as Sylra killed the creature, slicing its core with her lattice. The simulation faded, and the runes of the Sanctum grew quiet, but her eyes blazed. Marcus, you stumbled with your rune. We work as a team; if you don't, we'll fail. Her voice grew softer as she sheathed her blade. "What's the matter? You're not yourself." Ethan's fear was concealed by the blood dripping as he pushed off the wall. Marcus's memory gnawing, he lied and said, "Just rusty." A void-tainted elder with blackening runes. Who was it—Valthor or someone else? Lumara's vision of "shadows within" acted as a warning as he visualized the five thrones of the Council—Erynn Solara, Auralis, Valthor, and two unnamed—looming.
Sighing, Sylra took a step forward. "Trust is the foundation of team tactics. I cover your back, and you cover mine. Voidspawn don't wait for rust." She pointed toward the altar. "Once more. We drill until it's instinct." Ethan nodded in embarrassment. The failure of his rune was not rust but rather his soul, which was not in harmony with Marcus's body, and the surge rune's power was too raw. The Sanctum's starlight hummed with Serathys's ancient craft, which was connected to the First Gate of the Crystal Spire. It was designed to control Zorathys's chaos after the Dawn War, when High Gods imprisoned his essence in Nullvox, a prison-realm outside the Ninegates. Aetherion, the pivot of the multiverse, was at greater risk from Ethan's failure than Sylra's confidence.
With the altar flaring and a new Voidspawn emerging—winged, with a sharper void-scream and a stronger echo from Nullvox—they reset. With her voice commanding, Sylra took the point while weaving her blade. "Right wing, Marcus! Cripple it!" The creature's wing batted Ethan back, causing pain to spike his wounds as he flanked, slashing with his blade. His chest was a furnace as he traced the surge rune, the starlight flickering. Marcus was startled to recall: An elder's hand with twisted runes, stained with ichor. With the rune crumbling and the starlight fading, Ethan staggered. Sylra was targeted by the Voidspawn's diving claws, but Ethan screamed as he lunged, deflecting the blow with his blade. The beast was grounded when Sylra's lattice struck, and she yelled an urgent, "Seal it!"
With trembling fingers, Ethan traced the surge rune while kneeling at the altar. He focused, the spiral starting, even though pain roared and his vision was swimming. The platform was inundated with starlight, which sealed the simulation and caused the Voidspawn to dissolve. Sylra placed a hand on his shoulder and steadied him while looking into his eyes. "It's better, Marcus, but you're struggling with yourself. Speak with me." Ethan shook his head, perspiration and blood blending. With Valthor's eyes a shadow and the elder's void-taint haunting him, he rasped, "It's nothing." Her silence spoke louder than words, and Sylra's trust was eroded.
The doors of the Sanctum creaked, and a warden with a pale face and scorched armor burst through. "Sylra, hurry! Another tremor, Second Gate—the council has called. Torren has already arrived." Sylra sheathed her blade, her face hardened. "Marcus, tidy up. Meet us at the gate." Doubt weighed heavily on her back as she followed the warden. With Nullvox's whisper growing icier in his ears and the runes of the Sanctum fading, Ethan stood by himself. Marcus clarified in his memory: With ichor on his hands and a low voice, Valthor said, "You'll never mention this." Was it Auralis, Erynn, or another, or was it Valthor, the elder tainted by void? His only route was the coded fragments of the journal, which waited for the next clue.
Ethan's injuries ached, and the surge rune's malfunction served as a warning. He had been put to the test by the gatekeeper's forge, the Starlit Sanctum, and he had failed, his soul a stranger in Marcus's body. The shadows of the Council, the traitor's hand, and Zorathys's stirring all drew nearer, the blade of the invisible watcher growing sharper at his throat. The tremor of the Second Gate, connected to Nullvox's hunger, demanded answers.