Chapter 20: Storms beneath the silence
The days following their return from Nihrelion were unnervingly still. No earthquakes split the skies, no shadow creatures crept out from the cracks of reality. The world, for once, was quiet. Too quiet.
Aria sat on a jagged rock overlooking the sea of grey mist that separated the Realms from the Mortal Plane. The seventh Echo Fragment lay in her hands, a soft blue hue pulsing from its crystalline core. Each pulse harmonized with the mark in her palm, now a swirling constellation of lines and runes that ran halfway to her wrist.
Lyrien approached, his boots crunching against the stony terrain. He said nothing at first—just stood beside her, letting the silence speak for them. When he finally sat down, it was with the kind of exhale that carried days of thought.
"He's not going to wait much longer," Lyrien said quietly. "Xandros. The moment we got that last fragment, he changed. You felt it too, right?"
Aria nodded. "Yeah. Like a thread snapped somewhere. Or was pulled too tight."
Behind them, Arinthal stood with her palms pressed against a floating glyph, casting a protective dome over their small temporary camp. Even she seemed slower than usual, her magic dulled by something unseen.
"You know he's still trying to reach you," Lyrien added, glancing at the mark on her palm. "I hear you at night. You don't sleep. You breathe like you're drowning."
She looked away, shoulders tensing. "He whispers to me when I close my eyes. Shows me things. My mother, Tenria before it burned, the faces of everyone I failed. He doesn't even need to threaten me. Just...reminds me of what I've lost."
Lyrien's voice dropped to something fragile. "What if you did give it all up? Not because you're weak—but because he wore you down. Would that make you less of who you are?"
Aria turned to him then, her eyes burning—not with anger, but something softer. Honest. Tired. "I don't know who I am anymore, Lyrien. Every Realm took something. I've been fighting for so long I've forgotten what I'm trying to protect."
He didn't try to fix it. He just took her hand.
---
That night, Arinthal called a council between the three of them.
They gathered inside the dome, seated in a loose triangle, with the fragments set in a circular formation between them. Each fragment glowed with a different hue, forming a shifting pattern of light.
"We are near the final convergence," Arinthal began, her voice like the rustling of ancient leaves. "The fragments are aligning. The mark in Aria's hand is almost complete. Once it is, it will open the Gate to the Astral Spire—the last path to Xandros."
"So what's stopping us from marching up to the Gate now?" Lyrien asked.
"Xandros is. The moment we step toward it, he'll bring the war to us. His minions, the Broken Lords, the twisted remnants of fallen heroes—he's gathering them. They're not just soldiers. They're tragedies, reanimated to weaken you, emotionally."
Aria glanced up. "Why does he keep trying to break us that way? He could've killed us a hundred times. Why the long game?"
Arinthal's eyes hardened. "Because Xandros wasn't always a god of ruin. He was a prophet once. A healer. He doesn't want to kill the world—he wants to *remake* it, according to his own vision. And he believes if he breaks you, you'll see his way and help him."
"And what if I *do*?" Aria whispered.
Silence fell.
Lyrien leaned forward. "Then we'll stop you. Not because we don't love you. But because you wouldn't be *you* anymore."
---
The following morning, the camp was gone. Packed. Moved. The trio walked along the shattered road that led toward the Spire. It had no true location. It existed wherever the Fragments aligned. And now, it was beginning to take shape.
Around them, the world was falling apart.
Reality unraveled in threads. Buildings from lost civilizations floated in the sky. Time skipped in small bursts—birds flying backward, then forward, then freezing. Thunder cracked, but no rain fell.
"We're close," Arinthal murmured.
It was Lyrien who spotted them first. Figures on the horizon—armored, cloaked, moving in mechanical, deliberate rhythm.
"They're not alive," he said. "They're echoes."
"No," Aria corrected softly, feeling the pulse in her palm flare. "They're regrets."
As the figures approached, she saw them clearly.
Her old teacher from Tenria, burned but still speaking wisdom.
The boy she couldn't save during the collapse of the fourth realm.
Her mother.
Each of them bore weapons. Each of them looked at her with sorrow.
"They're not real," she whispered.
"They feel real enough to kill," Lyrien said, drawing his sword.
The battle erupted like a dam breaking.
Steel met illusion. Magic clashed with memory. Arinthal spun, her staff a whirlwind of arcane light. Lyrien fought two at a time, shielding Aria's back. But it was Aria who bore the brunt.
She couldn't raise her hand against the vision of her mother. Her legs faltered when the boy she failed whispered, "You promised."
One by one, the illusions chipped at her.
Until finally, Lyrien stood before her, blood streaked down his face, roaring at the sky.
"XANDROS! ENOUGH!"
And just like that—the enemies faded. Dust in the wind.
---
They camped that night beneath the shattered moon.
Lyrien's wounds were deep. Arinthal had used nearly all her energy healing him. Aria hadn't spoken since the battle.
She finally stood, pacing to the edge of the ridge.
"I saw my mother. She asked me to stay."
Lyrien sat up, groaning. "Did you want to?"
"Yes. Every part of me. But I didn't. And I don't know why that scares me."
He managed a dry chuckle. "Maybe because you're becoming stronger. And strength means choosing pain, sometimes."
"You always have something smart to say, huh?"
"Nope. Just pretending I do because it helps you keep going."
She turned to him then, walking back, kneeling beside him.
"You've always been here. Even when I didn't deserve it."
He looked at her, and for the first time, said nothing.
Because some truths didn't need words.
---
The next morning, the Astral Spire finally revealed itself.
A tower of light. Endless. Shifting. It didn't pierce the sky. It *became* it. The mark on Aria's palm ignited like a beacon. She walked forward.
No enemies stopped them this time.
Just the wind. Just the silence.
Just the final climb ahead.
Their story was nearing its end.
But the hardest battles were yet to come...