The Spire of Stars rose at the very center of Varn like a lance aimed at the heavens.
From the ground, it looked like a tower of glass and starlight. From the sky, it was a spear of ancient arrogance—a monument to a forgotten age, built not for mortals, but for gods.
And tonight, it was a gateway to the void.
Ael stood at the base of the great structure, his eyes tracing the runes etched in golden veins across its surface. Power thrummed through the walls—alive, aware, and malevolent.
Queen Altheira stood beside him, her radiant gown dimmed by shadow. "The Choir has sealed the Spire to all but their own. I will break the warding sigils. But once inside, you'll be on your own."
Ael nodded. "We've been alone before."
Elric muttered behind him, "Yeah, but not this high up. One wrong step and it's the long fall into history."
Arienne gave him a sharp look. "Then don't miss."
Lyra stayed silent, her twin daggers already gleaming with venom and light.
Altheira pressed her palm against the archway. The runes flared. A pulse of soundless energy rippled outward.
The gate opened.
Ael stepped into the Spire.
And hell followed.
—
Inside, the air was thick with crimson mist.
The Choir's magic soaked every stone. Murals of twisted angels covered the walls, wings bent, halos broken, eyes weeping blood. Candles floated in the air, their flames blue and flickering despite the stillness.
Chanting echoed from above, growing louder as they climbed the spiral path.
"They're close," Lyra whispered.
"Elric, how many levels?" Arienne asked.
He studied the tower's inner rings. "We're three floors from the summit. Whatever they're summoning… they're nearly done."
The walls shook.
A scream tore through the air—not human. Not beast.
Something in-between.
Ael's pace quickened.
The void was stirring.
—
On the penultimate floor, they met resistance.
Choir cultists blocked the stairwell—fifteen or twenty of them, armed with void-forged spears and draped in robes that pulsed like living flesh.
Arienne moved first, slicing through the first wave with fire dancing along her sword.
Lyra blinked past enemies like a shadow made flesh, striking hearts before the screams could even rise.
Elric held the back line, shields and kinetic force spells knocking enemies into walls and off balconies.
Ael moved forward like a storm given form.
His blade—Whisper—hummed in his hand, absorbing the void's presence. Every swing severed both flesh and spell, cutting through magic like it was mist.
But the deeper they pushed, the louder the chanting grew.
And above, something vast began to awaken.
—
The summit chamber was nothing like the rest of the Spire.
It was a void bubble suspended in starlight—an impossible sphere of space torn open to the heavens.
At the center hovered a circle of Choir mages, their arms raised, chanting in a language that should not have existed. Above them swirled a tear in reality—a gateway of spiraling darkness, ringed in light.
From it descended a figure.
An angel.
Once.
Its wings were scorched black, its face hidden beneath a porcelain mask cracked in a dozen places. Chains bound its arms, and void-fire bled from its chest.
Elric gasped. "That's not just a summon. That's a Herald."
Ael's voice was a whisper. "It's not just any Herald."
He stepped forward.
"I know you."
The angel turned toward him slowly.
And spoke.
"You were the one who struck me down at the Gate of Ash. You wore no crown. You spoke no words. But your blade… sang of sorrow."
The Choir backed away, faces pale. Even they hadn't expected the Herald to speak.
Ael raised Whisper.
"It's been a long time."
The Herald smiled—an eerie, broken thing. "And still… you carry both fate and choice in your hands. Come then, Hollow King. Let us finish what we began—before the world ever knew your name."
—
The battle exploded like thunder.
The Herald moved faster than anything Ael had faced since awakening in this world. Wings tore through space, each feather a blade. Chains lashed out, shattering the Spire's warding stones.
But Ael was faster.
Not because of speed.
Because of clarity.
Because the void's presence didn't frighten him.
It was part of him now.
He danced with it.
Blades clashed. Magic screamed. Lyra darted between divine attacks, landing strikes that weakened the Herald's flight. Arienne summoned firestorms to block its path. Elric erected barriers to shield the team.
And then—Ael saw it.
A glint of silver embedded in the Herald's heart.
A second sword.
The Blade of Echoes.
He leapt.
The Herald screamed—not in rage, but in recognition.
Ael grabbed the hilt and pulled.
Light and shadow burst from the wound.
He landed with a new weapon in hand.
One forged of silence and memory.
The Herald collapsed, laughing with a voice of ash.
"So it begins again. May you choose better than I did."
And then, it was gone.
The void closed.
The Spire was silent.
Ael stood with both swords crossed before him.
His breathing slowed.
His heart—beat.
Not as a king.
Not yet.
But as someone becoming more.