The mage paused before a mural—an Aethel figure shrouded in light, threads of gold and violet weaving around them. The binding spell at Eli's neck pulsed warmly, almost… approvingly.

  The mural depicted darkness seeping into light, a figure weaving threads of corruption into a crystal, not destroying but balancing.

  Eli saw threads of light weaving through darkness—violet strands intertwined with black corruption, not breaking it but creating a delicate balance. He saw the binding spell, not as a curse but as a conduit, a bridge between light and dark, balancing what could not be destroyed.

  And beneath it all, a power—vast and terrible—coiled deep and unbound, its heartbeat slow and relentless.

  Eli's breath hitched. "It was never a curse," he whispered. "It was… a safeguard."

  The mage's eyes were sad. "Without balance, power consumes. Without restraint, all burns."

  Eli stared at the mural, the weight of understanding settling like stone in his chest. "The binding spell doesn't just contain the corruption," he said slowly. "It... harmonizes with it. Creates balance."

  "Yes." The mage's voice was soft but firm. "What cannot be destroyed must be contained. What cannot be removed must be balanced."

  "And that's why I can understand you," Eli realized. "The binding spell isn't just binding me—it's connecting me. To the past. To knowledge I never learned."

  The mage inclined their head, a flicker of approval in their ancient eyes.

  Eli's breath was shallow, eyes wide as the vision shifted around him—fractured and raw, like a wound torn open. Light and darkness clashed in a whirlwind of chaos, Aethel warriors falling, spells unraveling into streams of golden light that dissipated into the storm-filled sky.

  The Aethel city burned, towers of ivory and crystal collapsing beneath waves of shadow. Krev soldiers surged through shattered barriers, their eyes gleaming crimson, blades and claws glinting black as pitch. Portals flared open behind them—rifts torn into reality, disgorging wave after wave of twisted soldiers, armor gleaming with dark runes.

  Eli stumbled back a step, heart pounding in his chest, the dark core of Starling pulsing faintly in his hand—slow, searching, almost hungry. The binding spell at his neck was warm, the silver threads pulsing softly, not restraining but steadying, as if urging him to keep watching.

  Ahead, at the heart of the chaos, the Aethel figure stood—robes of violet and gold edged in silver, a staff gripped tightly in one hand. Their eyes were dark with resolve, golden light flaring in their gaze. The glyphs around their neck—the same as those on Eli's binding spell—glinted with every pulse of light.

  The Last Stand.

  The figure's gaze swept over the battlefield—Aethel soldiers falling, dark portals tearing open, corruption seeping into the very stone. For an instant, something like grief flickered in their eyes. They raised their staff, voice carrying across the din—soft but unyielding.

  "Restraint is mercy. Without it, all burns."

  A pulse of golden and violet light exploded outward, slowing the tide of darkness for a heartbeat—but only a heartbeat. The Krev surged forward, claws and blades glinting, darkness seeping through cracks in the barriers.

  The figure's eyes darkened. Their jaw set.

  Eli's breath hitched. "No," he whispered, a tremor threading his voice. He could feel it—the gathering power, vast and terrible, coiling deep beneath the Aethel figure's control. A power that wasn't being wielded—only held back.

  "Don't—"

  The Ultimate Sacrifice

  The Aethel figure took a step forward, robes swirling, the staff lowered. They exhaled slowly, eyes closing for a heartbeat—resolve settling in their gaze like steel. The ground trembled beneath their feet, the air thickening with energy—raw, unbound, seething with light and shadow entwined.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  A last resort. A final safeguard.

  Golden glyphs flared along the figure's throat, light splintering outward. The binding spell around Eli's neck pulsed sharply, the silver threads flaring bright—not painful, but desperate, almost pleading. Starling's core gave a faint, hungry pulse, dark and slow.

  The Aethel figure raised their gaze to the darkened sky, eyes glinting with fierce resolve and something else—something like resignation.

  "Forgive me," they whispered, voice soft. "Without balance, all burns."

  The staff struck the ground.

  A blinding explosion.

  Light exploded outward—gold and violet entwined, a shockwave that rippled through the city with a sound like thunder given form. Towers crumbled, shadows were torn apart, and for an instant, the darkness recoiled, shrieking in agony. The earth itself split beneath the force, cracks spider-webbing outward, releasing torrents of violet and golden light that seared across the battlefield.

  Eli cried out, hands flying to shield his eyes, the force of the explosion tearing through him—light and heat and raw power, unbound and all-consuming.

  No restraint. No balance. Only fire.

  His knees hit the ground, boots scraping stone, the binding spell at his neck pulsing wildly, the silver threads bright and searing, not restraining but holding him together—barely.

  The Aethel city shattered.

  "Stop."

  Aura's voice—soft, desperate—cut through the vision like a knife, raw and trembling. Her wings flared, light sparking in motes of silver and violet, eyes wide with horror and guilt.

  "Please—stop."

  The vision fractured—splintering with a sound like glass cracking, light and darkness unraveling into streams of color that whirled and twisted. Eli gasped, jerking back, the world spinning around him, boots scraping against the polished floor of the Hall of Memories.

  He blinked rapidly, heart pounding, vision swimming—gold and violet light fading, the roar of the explosion lingering in his ears like a phantom. The binding spell was warm, the silver threads pulsing faintly—not chains, but a lifeline, taut and strained.

  Aura's Guilt: The Weight of Inaction

  Aura hovered before him, her wings trembling, eyes wide and luminous with guilt. Waves of emotion rolled off her—sorrow, regret, desperation, a grief so raw that Eli almost staggered beneath the weight of it.

  Her light dimmed, wings drooping, and for an instant, Eli saw it—a memory not his own, but hers.

  Portals tearing open, darkness spilling forth, cities burning beneath waves of corruption. Krev soldiers surging forward, blades and claws glinting, eyes crimson with hate. Aethel warriors falling, shields splintering, barriers collapsing.

  And in the heart of it—Aura, watching from within a crystal core, her wings pressed against the glass, eyes wide with horror and helplessness. Unable to act, unable to stop it—only to watch as the world burned.

  Guilt crashed over Eli—sharp and bitter.

  Aura's wings trembled, her light flickering. Waves of emotion radiated from her—guilt, sorrow, a desperate plea for forgiveness. A wordless message, raw and jagged: If only I could have done more.

  Eli's breath was shallow, voice rough. "You… you saw it all," he rasped. "You watched them fall, all of them…"

  Aura's eyes lowered, wings quivering. Yes.

  The guilt radiating from her was suffocating—an apology woven with despair, a desperate If only that echoed through the silence of the Hall. If only she could have acted. If only she could have found a way to control the corruption—to turn it back before it consumed everything.

  "Your language," Eli said, his voice gentler now that he understood the depth of her pain. "Your thoughts, your feelings—I understand them because of the binding spell, don't I? It's not just restraining me—it's connecting us."

  A wave of affirmation washed over him, mingled with relief that he finally understood. The binding spell was a bridge between them, translating her emotions and intentions directly to his mind.

  "All of this," Eli whispered, hands shaking. "The Hall, the memories, the training—it was to prepare for them. For the Krev."

  Aura's light brightened faintly, a hesitant confirmation. But beneath the urgency and desperation was a raw, unfiltered grief—guilt that choked the air, threaded with a plea for understanding.

  A wordless message, heavy with sorrow: I failed them. I couldn't stop it. I couldn't save them.

  Eli's fingers clenched around Starling, jaw tight. "You… you're trying to stop it from happening again," he breathed. "You're trying to—"

  Aura's light flared sharply, eyes snapping to his—desperate, pleading, and beneath it all, a faint, flickering hope.

  Yes.

  The dark core of Starling pulsed faintly—slow and steady, almost like a heartbeat. The binding spell's silver threads pulsed warmly at his neck, not restraining but urging him forward—into the dark, into the truth buried beneath eons of silence and stone.

  Eli swallowed hard, the weight of revelation settling cold in his bones. His voice was rough, his hands white-knuckled on Starling's shaft.

  "Then show me," he rasped, resolve threading his voice. "If there's more—show me."

  Aura hesitated a heartbeat, wings trembling, eyes wide and luminous with guilt and hope entwined. Then she turned slowly, her light a soft beacon in the dark, leading the way deeper into the Hall of Memories.

  Eli followed—boots scraping against the stone, breath shallow but steady, heart pounding with a mix of fear and grim resolve. The silver threads of the binding spell pulsed gently, guiding him forward step by step, into the shadows, into the truth.

  And behind them, the mirror darkened—its surface smooth and opaque, but within, faint and pulsing, the silhouette of a dark core glinted, threads of gold and violet weaving around it, not restraining but holding the darkness at bay.