The Third Gate: Vale of Mirrors
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The entrance to the Vale wasn't a door.
It was a ripple.
A shimmer in the air where the wind bent sideways and color bled like oil on water. The moment they stepped through, everything changed.
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Light fractured.
Ground became glass.
Trees turned to crystal columns, rising into a sky that shimmered with reflection instead of cloud.
It wasn't the real world.
It was memory reshaped.
Possibility made physical.
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Kael muttered, "This place is wrong."
Liora nodded. "No ley lines. No anchors. This isn't part of Aetherra."
Lyra looked at Riven.
"It's you, isn't it? This place… it's shaped by your mind."
Riven didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
Because ahead of them—down a path made of mirrored stone—stood the Third Gate.
And standing before it… was him.
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Same hair. Same cloak. Same eyes.
But no fire in his stance.
No will in his grip.
Just a boy, twelve years old, staring with empty eyes and chained hands.
Lyra whispered, "Is that…?"
"Yes," Riven said quietly.
> "That's who I would've been."
> "If I had never escaped Seris."
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The Third Gate was shaped like a cathedral spire.
Glass, crystal, obsidian bone.
And in place of a lock—there was a question.
Etched above the archway in burning light:
> "To pass, forsake what could have been."
Riven turned to the mirrored boy.
He didn't speak.
But Riven felt what he was thinking.
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You were stronger.
You were faster.
But you still lost everything.
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The others stayed back.
This part was not for them.
Riven stepped forward alone.
And the reflections changed.
The ground beneath him shifted to memory.
The Vale showed him things.
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His father's last words.
Seris kneeling at the Seal chamber.
Lyra's tears the night he nearly bled out under the mountain.
Kael screaming as Eclipse fire consumed a village.
Liora shielding a dying child.
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Then—
An older Riven.
Standing atop a throne of broken Seals.
Crown of shadow on his brow.
Eyes empty.
World burning.
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He staggered back.
"No…"
The mirrored boy stepped forward.
"I could've been safe," he said. "Obedient. You chose pain."
"I chose freedom."
"You chose to bleed."
"I chose to fight."
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The Vale cracked.
The mirrored boy shattered.
Not in rage.
In peace.
His chains fell. His form dissolved into mist. And the gate opened with a soft hum.
Inside, the Third Seal waited.
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Not a brand.
Not a key.
A sword.
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It hovered midair.
Long, obsidian blade inscribed with three names: one for fire, one for frost, and one left blank.
Riven stepped forward.
The sword spoke without sound.
> "Name yourself."
He hesitated.
Then whispered:
> "I am Riven Caelthorn Valenhart."
> "But if I must forget my name to forge peace—so be it."
> "Let the sword remember for me."
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The blade etched the third name into its edge.
It pulsed once.
Then vanished—
Straight into Riven's chest.
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No wound.
Just weight.
Just will.
He gasped—staggered—then stood straighter than he ever had.
Behind him, the Gate crumbled.
And the Vale faded.
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He walked out alone.
The others waited just beyond the ripple.
Lyra rushed to him, hands searching his arms, his eyes.
"Riven. Are you—"
He caught her hand.
Held it.
"I remember."
"What?"
"I remember… what I'm becoming."
She frowned. "And?"
He turned toward the horizon.
Toward the final arc of the sky.
"The last Seal awaits."
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Far away, Seris sat in a circle of Eclipse priests.
They chanted in silence.
Her eyes glowed faintly.
She exhaled once, smiling thin.
> "He's almost ready."
> "Let the Fourth Seal break on the night of blood."
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