Chapter Sixty-Four : Sepulcher of Flame

Chapter Sixty-Four : Sepulcher of Flame

The air grew hotter with each step.

Kael walked ahead, boots crunching on red-cracked earth, a thin trail of white dust rising in his wake. The sky above had dimmed to an unnatural hue—neither day nor night, as if the sun feared to watch what lay ahead.

Lira followed silently behind, though she knew she could only go so far.

Before them, the ground split into a jagged chasm. At its edge, a blackened obelisk jutted out of the earth like a broken fang. Behind it, fire bled through the cracks of a massive stone gate—the entrance to the Sepulcher of Flame.

Kael stood still, his sword Ashlorn resting at his side, his light aura quiet but ever-present.

"This place… it burns with more than fire," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Something was buried here. Sealed."

"Kael…" Lira touched his shoulder, reluctantly. "I should go with you."

He turned to her. "I need you to stay out here. If I don't make it back—"

"You will," she interrupted. "Because I won't forgive you if you don't."

Kael gave her a small nod before turning to the gate. The heat lashed at his face as the doors slowly creaked open, responding not to strength—but to the light pulsing in his chest.

He stepped inside.

The sepulcher closed behind him with a low, seismic boom.

Inside, it was a cathedral of ruin.

Massive statues loomed overhead—knights, kings, monsters—all scorched black and broken. Fires danced in floating rings above his head, and the floor was lined with ancient swords impaled into molten stone.

But Kael felt no fear.

He walked until he reached the center, where an altar stood. Upon it, a blade—half white, half black—hovered in the air.

Ashren. The twin of his own sword. The sword that had been lost when the first war ended.

As he stepped forward, the temperature dropped. A voice echoed all around him—not the Watcher's, not Andrew's, not Lira's.

A voice older.

"Are you ready to burn, Child of Light?"

Kael didn't hesitate. "If it means ending this… yes."

The blade shot toward him.

He raised his sword to meet it—and the two collided in an explosion of white fire and black mist. Pain seared through his veins. Not physical. Memory. He saw battles he'd never fought. Faces he'd never known. Screams from a war long forgotten—until they became his own.

Kael dropped to his knees, eyes wide, white flames erupting from his back like wings.

The Sepulcher was rewriting him.

A fusion of every bearer before him. Of fire, light, rage… and choice.

Then came the test.

The shadows rose. Dozens. Hundreds. All faceless, but strong. All drawn from his own doubt. All with his voice. His failures.

He fought.

Blade to blade, step by step, he moved like the light itself—every strike slicing through lies, every parry a stand against the past.

Hours passed—or maybe seconds.

Until only one shadow remained.

Kael.

A perfect reflection. Standing tall, smirking, holding a blade made of silence.

"You can't win," the shadow said. "You'll become like him."

Kael narrowed his eyes. "Maybe."

Then he stabbed forward.

Not with hatred. Not with anger.

With clarity.

The light consumed the shadow—and the Sepulcher responded. The fires vanished. The statues crumbled. And the blade that hovered above now rested in Kael's hand, fused with his own.

He stood, armor cracked but glowing, eyes burning white.

And then the gates opened behind him.

Lira ran to him. "Kael! Are you—what happened to your eyes?!"

Kael didn't answer at first. He looked at his hands. At the blade.

Then finally, he spoke. "The world won't save itself."