The road turned cold again.
The southern winds that had warmed Elira's cheeks only days before were long behind them. In their place came a biting chill that curled through the forest's edge, whispering secrets in languages older than the soil. Each breath that Caelen drew seemed to hang longer in the air, vapor rising like the ghosts he had once carried.
The call was growing clearer.
Not a voice, not exactly. But a sensation, rooted deep beneath the scar that still lived on his chest. It pulled like gravity, like memory, tugging him northward. Not even the curse could translate it—which made it all the more unsettling. For the first time since awakening in the temple sanctuary, Caelen didn't feel pain as much as absence. As if something ahead of him had taken a part of him with it.
He didn't tell Elira right away.
They moved through the frostbitten woods in silence. She matched his pace, her dagger slung across her back, her eyes sharp, cautious. Since her return from the illusion-dream, she had been quieter. But not withdrawn. She walked like someone who had grieved and survived it. Someone who knew what it meant to lose everything, and still stand up.
By the second day, they came upon the ruins.
It wasn't a village. Not anymore. The bones of stone houses lay scattered like a child's broken toys, roofs long caved in, hearths overgrown with frost. Trees had grown through what once were walls, and snow cradled shattered beams like forgotten offerings. Yet there was something sacred about it. A stillness. Not hollow, but hushed.
Elira paused, brow furrowed. "Do you recognize this place?"
Caelen didn't answer immediately. His hand brushed the hilt of the Weeping Blade, but he did not draw it. Something about this place was watching. Or listening.
He took a slow breath.
"I don't remember," he said at last. "But it remembers me."
They found a stone arch at the center of the ruin, nearly buried beneath curling vines and snow. Beneath it, carved with meticulous hands, were words so faded only fragments remained:
He who bore our grief. He who gave without name. May his light return when all is lost.
Elira knelt beside the arch, brushing snow from the inscription. Her fingers trembled. "This is about you. Isn't it?"
Caelen shook his head slowly. "Or someone like me. The curse... it wasn't always mine. It was passed. Chosen. Burdened."
She looked up. "Then this place..."
"Might be where the Ashbound were born. Or ended."
As the sun dipped low, Caelen walked to the heart of the ruin. A broken well sat there, its stones crumbling inward, vines curling like fingers around its lip. Something stirred beneath.
He reached toward it.
And fell.
The ground beneath him cracked. The stones gave way, a sinkhole yawning open, swallowing him in silence. Elira shouted, lunging after him, but it was too late.
Caelen dropped into darkness.
He hit hard.
Pain spiked through his ribs, but he rolled onto his side, groaning. Light spilled down from the ruined well above—not enough to see, but enough to know he wasn't alone.
There were figures. Not moving, but present. Stone statues, perhaps. Or something worse.
Then one opened its eyes.
Silver.
Like his.
"So," the voice rasped, thick with time and frost, "you've returned."
Caelen froze.
"You're not him," the voice said. "But you carry his wound."
"Who are you?" Caelen asked, forcing himself to stand.
Another statue stirred, shifting. The light from above caught its features—a face like his, older, bearded, lined with sorrow. "We are what you would become. What you were meant to be. The ones who came before."
"Ashbound?"
A third voice now. Female. Ancient. Soft like snow. "Once. Now we are only echoes. The curse was not born with you. It was inherited. Shaped. Forged in a war so old even Aerthalin forgot it."
Caelen's scar pulsed. The pain returned, and with it—flashes. Visions.
Children crying in halls of gold. Cities burning beneath black skies. A blade not unlike his, rising in defiance. The first Ashbound, their faces solemn, stepping into darkness so others wouldn't have to.
His knees gave way.
"Why me?" he whispered. "Why now?"
The silver-eyed man stepped closer, kneeling beside him. His presence was heavy, but not cruel. "Because the line ends with you. And the curse... must choose whether to become salvation. Or oblivion."
Above, Elira's voice echoed down the shaft, frantic. "Caelen! Answer me!"
He looked up. He could barely see her outline in the light, framed by stars.
"She's your anchor," the woman said. "But you must decide who you are without her. What your pain means without love to soften it."
Caelen gritted his teeth. The blade trembled at his side.
"I won't pass this on. Not again. Not to another."
The echoes nodded. "Then face us. And reclaim it."
And the chamber lit with fire—