The ash lake had not dried in centuries.
Its surface trembled, but never with wind. Only with breath—something beneath it exhaled, patiently. Elías sat near its edge, the Scythe of Death across his lap. It had grown heavier since the Feast Hall, as if each memory it absorbed deepened its hunger.
Rae refused to speak. Her lips had stitched themselves shut in the night.
Aleya tried to cut the threads, but each time she did, they bled smoke, and Rae screamed with no sound.
We were unraveling. Not just as a group—but inside ourselves. Dreams merged with waking. Elías had begun hearing voices from the weapon itself. Not words—just urges, quiet and ancient.
"Walk forward."
He obeyed.
The others followed him through the gray, and into the forest of broken statues.
There were thousands—twisted figures in the shape of forgotten gods and failed monsters. Wings made of coal. Horns broken off. Faces shattered in prayer or horror. Each statue bore a plaque, but the names were long gouged out, as if the world itself rejected them.
Aleya found one that looked like her.
Same scars. Same armor. Same tired rage in the stone's eyes.
"What is this place?" she asked.
Rae couldn't answer, so Elías did.
"A cemetery… for futures that never were."
The path through the forest led to a structure buried half in the ground. A cathedral with no ceiling. The walls were skin—living—stitched to bones that still twitched in the dirt.
Inside, the air was wet with whispers.
They didn't echo from the stone. They came from beneath it.
Elías walked to the altar. It was made from the skull of a giant, and upon it sat a mask. Simple. Gray. No mouth. Just two holes for eyes.
He touched it.
And suddenly, he saw—
Not the future. Not the past.
But a version of himself standing in front of a throne made of mirrors. Crowned. Alone. Surrounded by corpses that wore the faces of his companions.
"No," he whispered.
But the Scythe pulsed. It wanted that throne. It whispered a truth:
"You are meant to reign over silence."
Elías dropped the mask. It shattered—and from its shards, a creature crawled.
It was shaped like a man, but wrong. Its limbs bent backward. Its ribs opened like wings. Its head was featureless, except for a mouth on its chest, which whispered:
"You are late."
Aleya struck first, blade flashing through candlelight. But the creature bent around the cut, reforming before it bled. Rae tried to summon her glyphs, but only black steam poured from her hands.
Elías raised the Scythe.
The creature paused. Its mouth-smile stretched.
"Yes," it breathed. "Let us speak."
They did not fight with blades.
They fought with choices.
Each swing of the Scythe made a door open in Elías's mind. One led to peace—but at the cost of Rae. Another to power—but alone. Another to endless war—with himself.
The creature grew with each indecision. It fed on hesitation, on doubt. It fed on the moments Elías wondered if he deserved to survive.
Then he made a choice.
He swung the Scythe—not to kill, but to cut out his own fear. He sliced a memory from himself: the moment he first saw his village burning. The scream of his sister. The helplessness.
It hurt more than any wound.
But the creature shrieked. It burned. Because Elías had given up a piece of himself that fear could no longer feed on.
He turned to Rae. Touched her stitched mouth. Whispered:
"You don't need to speak to be heard."
And she wept violet light.
Aleya finished the creature with her blade, now glowing with borrowed courage.
When it died, the cathedral collapsed—not into rubble, but into silence.
Pure, deafening silence.
Outside, the ash lake had dried.
And in its place stood a mirror, tall as a mountain, showing nothing but the sky.
But it was not their sky.
And it had no stars.
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Question for the Reader:lf your power required you to forget the ones you loved… would you choose strength, or memory?