Chapter 4: The Ashen Road

I hear the tower groan before I feel the tremor beneath my feet. It’s a deep, anguished sound, like an ancient beast finally succumbing to its wounds. My earlier spell must have weakened the entire structure, and now it’s caving in on itself. Chunks of stone and twisted metal rain down around me, and a thick cloud of dust chokes the air. Each breath sears my throat.

I spot the iron chest—tilted at an angle, half-buried in the rubble. The serpentine runes gleam faintly as if mocking me, and my stomach twists. Yet something compels me forward. I dash across the shaking floor, ducking beneath a falling timber. My corrupted hand throbs, the black veins crawling up to my elbow stinging like acid. A grotesque reminder of the dagger’s hunger.

Reaching the chest, I slash my palm across the runes. My blood—darkened and viscous—hisses against the metal. For a moment, the runes flare, serpents coiling in a dance of heat and shadow, and then the lock clicks. I lift the lid with trembling hands. Inside rests a single fragment of what looks like a star chart—except it’s etched on a plate of polished bone. Strange constellations fill its surface: The Shattered Crown, Kael’s Folly, and others whose names tingle at the edges of my battered memory. Near the center, one name pulses with dim light: The Blind Citadel.

Before I can take in more details, the floor cracks beneath me. A thunderous roar echoes above, and I twist away just as a massive section of ceiling crashes down. Stone shards cut into my arms and legs, but I manage to keep hold of the bone map, pressing it protectively against my chest. I shove debris aside, lungs burning, and lurch toward a narrow gap in the wall. It’s not much of an exit, but it’s all I have.

With the map clutched tight, I throw myself through the gap. My robes catch on jagged rock, tearing further, but I push on until I’m free. The moment I land outside, the tower implodes behind me, collapsing in a roar of broken stone and swirling ash. I stumble, trying to regain my footing on the cracked earth, and realize I’m shaking—whether from adrenaline or the cold shock of the corruption creeping along my arm, I can’t be sure.

Turning away from the wreckage, I find myself alone in the barren wastes once more. The sky is still that sickly greenish hue, heavy with cinders. A wind gust carries the smell of scorched decay, tugging at my shredded robes. I breathe in, half-regretting it when I taste dust and rot on my tongue.

I lift the shard of polished bone, brushing away lingering rubble. The etched constellations seem to shift in the dim light, their names stirring long-forgotten fragments in my head. Kael’s Folly. The Shattered Crown. They mean something—someone—important. And there, at the center, the words Blind Citadel glow faintly, as though calling to me. A thrill of uncertainty dances along my spine. Is it a warning or a promise of answers?

Pain draws my attention to my damaged hand. Black veins coil around my forearm now, a living stain feeding off my own blood. It’s colder than ice, but every so often, there’s a spike of heat—like the hiss of steam against metal. My magic feels strange too—sharper, yet more volatile. A distant part of me wonders if I’m turning into something monstrous myself, but I can’t dwell on that now. If there’s a cure—or even a clue—it might be hidden in that Citadel. Or it might not exist at all.

I take a moment to survey my surroundings. To the east, a curling column of smoke signals a scavenger camp. I can almost imagine haggard survivors huddled around makeshift fires, bartering scraps of food, old relics, and half-rotted pelts. People who have learned to eke out a living in this harsh land by any means necessary. If I go there, perhaps I can learn more about Kael’s movements.

To the west, jagged spires loom like teeth against the horizon. According to the bone map, that’s where I’ll find the Blind Citadel—buried in the Glass Wastes where magic twists and illusions bleed into reality. The map’s faint light pulses in my hand, hinting that the answers I crave might lie there. Whether those answers bring redemption or further horror remains to be seen.

As I stand on the threshold between these two paths, the Silver Eye Pendant against my chest pulses in time with my heartbeat. Its voice, faint but steady, resurfaces in my mind, offering a grim explanation along with its warning:

“Your awakening resonates across the realm, Eldrin, and Kael senses it. He moves toward the Citadel even now, prepared to raze villages, boil rivers, and slaughter armies to reach it first. You must decide: run toward the truth, or fight to protect what little remains of this world.”

The urgency in that voice is unmistakable, and it sets my teeth on edge. The vision of Kael pressing Void Glass into that creature’s heart still haunts me, a reminder of his willingness to twist anything and anyone to achieve his goals. If he is indeed racing me to the Citadel, how many innocents will he consume along the way?

A wave of weariness nearly buckles my knees, but I stand firm, gripping the staff in my uncorrupted hand. I’m wounded, battered by collapse and corruption, but I’m alive. And in a world as broken as this, being alive at all is a victory.

I catch my breath, forcing down the tremor in my limbs. The tower has fallen; there’s no going back. Two directions lie open:

East, where desperate souls might need help—or might offer help to me.

West, where the Blind Citadel and its secrets lie waiting under the dome of warped sky.

Neither path promises safety, and I can’t help but feel Kael’s shadow looming over both options. Yet the pendant’s words echo in my mind, and the bone map pulses in my grasp, pushing me toward a choice that might define not just my fate, but the fate of anyone standing between Kael and his prize.

I steady my gaze on the horizon. Fear and determination collide in my chest. Regardless of where I step next, I know one thing: I must confront the truth behind the Blind Citadel. The question is whether I can do so alone—or whether I should attempt to safeguard the people who dwell in the path of Kael’s fury.

My heart thuds against my ribs, matching the slow, insistent beat of magic under my skin. The wind whips at me again, carrying the taste of ash. I tighten my grip on the bone map, letting the voice of the pendant guide my resolve.

I lower myself into the ash with a soft groan, my back scraping against the remnants of a statue half-buried in rubble. The carved features of a once-revered king are now eroded beyond recognition, his stone gaze locked on nothing. The world around me feels just as lost—ruined spires and swirling embers stretch across the horizon, as far as I can see.

I stare down at my arm, where a network of black veins creeps further each time I look. The shadows beneath my skin coil and twist, cold and alive in their way, restless serpents waiting for any sign of weakness. I clench my hand, testing the sluggish response of my fingers. That’s when I sense the dagger’s power—a subtle promise of violence that skitters through my nerves, urging me to wield dominion. But the numbness pulsing through my forearm warns me it’s no simple gift. My breath falters.

Hastily, I press the Silver Eye Pendant against the creeping darkness. For an instant, the black veins recoil from its touch, as if stung. Relief floods me. Then, faint and resigned, a voice echoes within my mind:

“You always did charge headlong into the fire, Eldrin. Even before the Cataclysm.”

Something in me twists at the gentle reproach in those words. I need answers.

“Who are you? What is this corruption?”

Light blooms in the crystal of the pendant—cold silver radiance that intensifies until I can barely see. From that brilliance steps a spectral figure, her robes shimmering like liquid moonlight. Her eyes are milky, yet they bore into me with unsettling clarity.

“I am Lyra,” she says, her voice ringing with both sorrow and warmth. “Your… anchor. Or what remains of one. You bound my soul to this pendant so my knowledge could endure when Kael poisoned your mind.”

I shift in the ash, unsure if I should even breathe. The moment feels too fragile, as if the wrong movement might shatter whatever thin thread is holding me together. Lyra watches me with an expression I can’t quite name—something between sorrow and resolve.

"You don’t have to speak," she says, her voice steady. "But you do have to listen."

She doesn’t wait for an answer.

"The blade you carry—Void Glass—was forged to kill immortals, sever magic, and consume souls. Every time you call upon its power, you gamble with your own humanity."

My fingers tighten instinctively. I don’t need her to tell me that. I’ve felt it. The way the blackness creeps up my arm when I wield it, an unnatural coldness seeping into my bones.

"And if it reaches my heart?" The question escapes before I can stop it, barely louder than a breath.

Lyra doesn’t hesitate. "Then you’ll be lost. A puppet of the Void, just like the ones who came before you."

I swallow against the knot in my throat. The weight of the dagger at my hip feels heavier than ever. But Lyra isn’t finished.

"Kael knows you’ve awakened," she says. "He’s already moving toward the Blind Citadel."

Something inside me tightens. Kael. His name alone carries the weight of unfinished battles and shattered trust.

"What does he want there?"

"The Heart of the Cataclysm. A raw font of warped magic, powerful enough to reshape this world."

I already know what that means. Kael will burn anything in his path to reach it. Cities, rivers, entire legions—none of it will matter. He won’t stop.

"He thinks it will atone for his sins," she adds softly.

A bitter laugh escapes before I can stop it. "It won’t."

Silence settles between us, heavy with things neither of us can change. I exhale, rubbing a hand over my face. Somewhere in the depths of my mind, memories stir—fragments of a life before all of this, before Kael and I became enemies.

"Before the Cataclysm, before the beasts… we were Archmages. We tried to heal this world together." The words feel distant, like they belong to someone else.

Lyra nods, her form flickering like a reflection in dark water. "You fought beside him. But Void Glass poisoned his vision. He believed salvation demanded sacrifice, no matter the cost. You stood against him."

The memories press harder—flashes of a golden hall, the hum of arcane energy, Kael’s voice thick with fury.

"He called it betrayal," I murmur.

Lyra studies me, her expression unreadable. "The Citadel holds your missing memories, Eldrin."

The weight of her words settles into my chest, but she isn’t done.

"Kael’s disciples roam the wastes. Twisted beasts guard every path. And the longer you wait, the weaker your will becomes."

I press a hand to the pendant at my chest, feeling its steady pulse. Kael is coming. And I have a choice to make.

Her voice fades, scattering like embers in a dying fire. “Find the Weeping Sage Temple in the Citadel,” she urges. “She purified Void Glass once. Hurry. Every step you take toward the Citadel brings you nearer to Kael’s blade.”

Then Lyra’s image shreds into silver motes, and the pendant’s light dims. Silence settles around me, broken only by the hiss of wind stirring the ash. My arm burns, a constant reminder of the creeping danger beneath my skin. I cradle it against my chest, eyes drifting to the horizon where jagged spires pierce the pall of swirling dust. Beyond them lies the Blind Citadel, and with it, the truth—both the memories I’ve lost and the threat Kael poses.

I can’t linger in regret or confusion. The black veins pulse in time with my heartbeat, urging me on. We may have been Archmages once, Kael and I, but now our paths diverge in blood and ruin. If I fail to stop him, this world might burn beyond any hope of redemption. I press my fingers against the pendant, willing Lyra’s voice to return, but only the fading chill of her presence remains.

With a slow exhale, I brace myself against the statue’s crumbled base and push to my feet. The ash-covered wasteland beckons—a domain of bone-littered roads and warped magic. My next step feels monumental, a single choice that could shape the fate of countless souls. Clutching the staff in my good hand, I press onward, determined not to surrender to the shadow snaking up my arm—or to Kael’s ambition.