The cold didn't come from the wind. It seeped from inside Liora's chest.
She stood at the edge of the Black Hollow, where the earth turned to silver ash and the trees looked like skeletons frozen mid-scream. The battlefield was behind her now, buried beneath layers of silence and guilt. But their faces still haunted her—the laughter lost, the trust broken, the warmth she couldn't recreate no matter how many bones she raised.
And still, she walked forward.
Marek's last spell had carved a path in the forest. Twisted trunks, scorched vines, cracked stones. His final fury was his legacy—and it led straight to the edge of the Pale Wastes.
The land of death's secrets.
Liora knew what waited ahead: the Pale Citadel. The place Lysera had whispered about. A fortress built from bones and white crystal, hidden behind a veil of magic so dense it was said only those marked by the Veil itself could find it.
She was marked now.
The soul fusion ritual had left more than a scar. Her body was reacting to the residual power. Voices sometimes echoed in her mind—fragments of Alric's thoughts, foreign memories bleeding into her own. His magic. His fears. His guilt.
But it wasn't just Alric anymore.
She had begun hearing others—souls she'd fused with in desperation during the battle. Their consciousnesses flickered in her like candlelight in the dark, whispering doubts, names, regrets.
It made sleep impossible.
And yet, she couldn't stop experimenting.
The soul fusion was evolving. She had found she could separate parts of herself—send echoes of her consciousness into the bones of animals, even humans. For a few seconds at a time, she could be them. See through their eyes. Feel their pain.
It was beautiful.
It was horrifying.
And it was becoming addictive.
She told herself it was necessary. If the White Circle had magic that could enslave souls—if Lysera was telling the truth about a deeper magic beneath necromancy—then she'd need every weapon possible.
Even if it meant losing herself to find it.
The horizon shifted.
A shimmer rippled across the ash fields, revealing a towering silhouette half-buried in cloud. It wasn't shaped like any human fortress—too angular, too unnaturally still. Like it had been grown from the bones of gods. Towers curved like ribs. Bridges arched like spines. The front gate had no door, only a hole that yawned like a scream frozen in stone.
The Pale Citadel.
Liora stepped into the field.
The air crackled. Magic danced on her skin like static lightning, pricking every hair on her arms. Her bones ached. Her breath became visible, misting as if the dead themselves were watching.
She passed through the Veil.
Suddenly, it was quiet.
Too quiet.
Her own heartbeat was the loudest sound. Even her footsteps refused to echo. The citadel loomed above, silent and waiting.
Then a whisper.
Not in her ears—in her soul.
"You've come… late."
She turned.
A man stood where there had been nothing before. Tall. Armored in black bone and crimson runes. A helm crowned with antlers. His eyes were hollow pits of white fire.
Not human.
Not quite dead.
Something… in between.
"I am Kharon," the figure said. "The Gatekeeper. No one enters unless they bleed. That is the law."
Liora narrowed her eyes. "Then bleed me."
The figure raised a hand—and from the ground, five skeletal warriors emerged, shaped not from animal bones but from the spines of former necromancers. Their ribcages glowed with cursed runes. One even bore the broken mask of a White Circle initiate.
Each drew a blade laced with soulsteel.
Liora didn't hesitate.
She dropped into stance, her fingers sparking with black fire. The new magic pulsed at her fingertips—raw, primal, wild. Not spells. Not rituals. Instinct.
Her body moved before she thought.
One skeleton lunged—and she caught it mid-air, fusing her soul into its ribcage. It screamed and exploded outward in shards of light. Another rushed, and she blinked behind it, grabbing its skull and whispering a forgotten rite from Alric's memory.
It froze—then shattered into bone dust.
But the last three fought as one.
She couldn't keep up.
A blade nicked her arm—soulsteel slicing more than flesh. Her vision blurred. Her spirit staggered.
Then—another voice.
"Remember who you are."
It wasn't her own. It was his.
Alric.
He surged forward within her, not taking control—but lending her his will.
She screamed—and her magic roared to life.
A shockwave burst from her core. Bones cracked. Runes fizzled. The remaining skeletons shattered as her shadow warped into something monstrous—wings, horns, and faces not her own swirling within it.
When the smoke cleared, she was on her knees. The field was empty.
Kharon stood unmoved.
Then, he knelt.
"You may enter."
The gate opened behind him, leading into darkness.
But it wasn't empty.
It pulsed with relics, riddles, and revelations.
She was ready.
Or she would be—once she buried what little of her fear remained.