Erik fell.
He didn't scream. Couldn't.There was no wind. No gravity. Just endless descent through spiraling light and shadow.
Then — everything stopped.
He landed hard, not on stone or earth, but something… undefined. A shifting ground made of glimmers, like walking on liquid glass.
The sky above wasn't sky — it was a swirling dome of broken constellations and thunderous clouds, suspended like shattered memories.
This wasn't the real world.Not even a dream.
It was something else.
"You're in the Rift."The soul's voice echoed beside him."A place between life and death. Memory and future. Not even gods travel here willingly."
Erik tried to stand, but his limbs felt heavy, his heartbeat slow and muffled.
"How did I get here?"
"When Arenya was possessed, she spoke a Gateword. Ancient magic… bound to the blade. You touched Veyrion before you were ready."
Erik looked around. "So this is my punishment?"
"No. This is your trial."
Erik walked forward. The ground rippled under his feet. Far ahead, something flickered — a floating structure like a temple made of glass and bones.
He moved toward it, slowly, cautiously.
Time didn't flow here. There was no hunger, no fatigue. Only weight — the kind that pressed down on your soul.
He entered the temple.
Inside stood seven mirrors. Not like the Trial Mirrors, but tall monoliths — each one etched with a single glowing rune.
One of them shimmered and called to him.
He stepped toward it. His reflection appeared.
Except… it wasn't him.
It was a boy.
Seven or eight years old, dirt on his face, tears in his eyes. The Erik from his old village — the one who couldn't lift a sack of grain without help, who ran when wolves came too close to the fields.
The boy stared at him.
"Why did you leave us?"
Erik froze.
"I… didn't have a choice."
"You did," the boy said. "You chose power. You chose to forget."
Erik felt his chest tighten.
The boy whispered, "You're not one of us anymore."
Erik stepped back.
The mirror cracked, and the boy vanished.
Another mirror lit up.
This time, it showed a man — older than Erik, face half-burned, one arm missing, standing alone among ash.
Erik's breath caught. That… was him too.
"Is that my future?" he asked.
"A possible one," the soul replied. "If you fail to protect. If you become what Mirror Erik was becoming."
The man in the mirror turned, looked directly at him, and said:
"Every power comes with a cost. You haven't paid yours yet."
The mirror turned to ash.
Erik dropped to one knee, breathing hard. His hands trembled. His soul felt heavy.
"I don't know who I'm becoming…"
"You are still being shaped," the soul said. "And so am I. You are not just my host. You are my path."
Erik stood up slowly. "Then tell me your name. Who were you before me?"
There was silence.
Then…
"My true name is lost. But the gods once called me Veyrion — same as the blade."
Erik blinked.
"You were the sword?"
"No. I was the soul that wielded it. But when I died… the sword remembered. And when you touched it, it remembered me."
Erik stepped forward again. "So… what now?"
"Now, you must listen. Not to me… but to the blade."
Veyrion, strapped to his back, suddenly pulsed with light.
The rune near its hilt completed itself — and Erik heard a voice.
A new one.Older. Cold. Not the soul. Not himself.
But the sword.
"Bearer. You are unworthy."
Erik stiffened.
"You draw me without sacrifice. Without conviction. You want power, but you fear pain."
Erik gritted his teeth. "I've earned everything I've fought for."
The sword growled, its glow flaring.
"You've earned nothing yet."
Suddenly — the temple collapsed.
Erik was thrown backward into the void — mirrors exploding, space twisting.
And then… he woke.
He was lying on cold, black stone.
The sky above him was red.Mountains floated in the air.Lightning struck sideways.This wasn't the Rift anymore.
It was somewhere worse.
Erik sat up slowly, Veyrion still in his hand — now covered in a second glowing glyph, etched into the blade like a scar.
He wasn't alone.
A figure stood nearby — cloaked in ash-gray robes, tall and still, with no face beneath the hood.
It didn't speak.
But Erik felt its presence press on his lungs like drowning.
"What is that?" Erik asked the soul.
The soul didn't answer at first.
Then, softly—
"That… is a Collector."
"It hunts soul-bearers. Especially those like us."
Erik stood slowly, raising the blade.
The Collector took one step forward.
And every rune on Erik's body flickered like a dying star.
To be continued...