I stand within the Blind Citadel, a place of profound silence and overwhelming emptiness. My gaze drifts along walls of dark stone, each surface etched with faintly pulsing runes. The bone map I carried for so long has crumbled into dust at my feet—its purpose spent the moment I passed through the gate. I’m relieved to have reached this place, yet a haunting sense of loss gnaws at me. One sacrifice was required at the threshold, and now I can no longer remember Lyra’s face, only the cadence of her voice.

  The air is still, unnaturally so, as if the Citadel itself holds its breath in anticipation. Towering structures—bridges and archways, broad avenues and towering spires—span before me in a labyrinthine arrangement. But no trace of life stirs here, not even the moldering remains of any who once walked these corridors. It’s as if death itself never had the chance to leave a mark.

  I press a hand against the nearest wall, feeling the steady, throbbing pulse of the runes through the cold stone. Their light flickers in response, a weak attempt at recognition. They whisper of old magic, now fractured and incomplete. This place is drained, haunted by some ancient wrongdoing that lingers in every corner.

  My heartbeat thunders in my ears as I consider my next move. The dagger at my waist tugs me deeper, whispering with a rising fervor:

  “Kael is weak. He fears you. Let me feast, and I will give you the strength to tear his soul from his ribs.”

  The voice coils around my thoughts, each syllable promising power and retribution. My corrupted arm burns in agreement, black veins pulsing in time with the dagger’s every word. A shudder runs through me; the hunger is almost seductive.

  But I also feel a frail presence in the Silver Eye Pendant, a gentler voice that cuts through the din with quiet urgency:

  “The Sage can free you, Eldrin—but only if you let go of the dagger. Please. Remember who you were.”

  It’s Lyra, her tone frayed and desperate. Though I can no longer picture her features, her voice grounds me. Hold on, I tell myself, clinging to that faint plea like a beacon in this gloom. I can’t lose everything to the dagger’s hunger.

  Ahead of me, an archway leads toward the Weeping Sage’s temple—somewhere within these winding corridors. I sense healing there, a place where I might mend the fractured ward on my arm and quell this corruption before it consumes me entirely. Yet another part of me longs to storm the Citadel’s core, to hunt Kael down before he can seize the Heart of the Cataclysm. Time presses on all sides: if I hesitate, Kael might grow too strong.

  But I’m wounded, exhausted, and my body can only withstand so much more. If there’s a chance the Sage can restore my strength, maybe even piece together what I’ve lost, it’s too vital to ignore. Clutching my staff in my hand, I turn away from the dagger’s pull and lurch toward the temple. Each step is a choice—a refusal to feed the blade’s dark appetite.

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  My feet echo in the silent streets, the sound swallowed almost as soon as it’s made. I skirt around towering, windowless buildings that loom over deserted plazas. Now and then, a network of bridges appears overhead, linking the immense towers in silent arcs. Runes flicker where I pass, like eyes trying to waken from a deep slumber. Yet no one stands at the ramparts, and no gate is guarded. This entire stronghold has the feel of a corpse that never decayed—just sealed away from time.

  Tension coils in my stomach. Kael is here, somewhere, his presence pressing against the edges of my awareness. The pendant grows cold, a subtle warning of his proximity. My mind drifts to the day we once stood side by side, wielding magic to heal a broken realm. But now he stands as my enemy, twisted by Void Glass and ambition. That realization clenches my chest in an ache of regret and dread.

  At last, I arrive at a wide courtyard where an ancient stone structure rises in the center. It has the semblance of a shrine—columns veined with pale crystal, carvings depicting a robed figure shedding eternal tears. This must be the Weeping Sage’s main temple, the very place my pendant has guided me to. My legs tremble from exertion. The corrupted arm flares with each heartbeat, and the dagger’s voice grows louder the closer I get to this hallowed site:

  “Destroy your weakness, Eldrin. Let me devour the Sage and claim her power. Only then can you face Kael.”

  I swallow a gasp, pressing a hand to my temple as I push open the heavy doors. The interior is dimly lit by strange crystals embedded in the walls, casting an otherworldly glow on the polished floor. Rows of kneeling statues line the central hall, each carved with a face frozen in sorrow. And at the far end, I spot a platform draped in shadows, faint wisps of shimmering light dancing above it like a mirage.

  “Lyra,” I whisper, touching the pendant. “If the Sage is here, can she truly free me?” My voice sounds loud in the stillness, breaking the hush like a crack in a frozen lake.

  Her reply is faint but certain. “She can mend what has been broken—if you allow it. If you give up the blade.”

  My chest tightens. Giving up the dagger means giving up my most formidable weapon against Kael. Yet the cost of keeping it—and feeding its corruption—could be far greater. Even now, I feel my memories slipping through my grasp like sand, new cracks forming in my sense of self each time the dagger’s hunger stirs.

  I take another step into the temple, dwarfed by the towering statues. Their blank eyes seem to watch me, acknowledging my wounds, my sacrifices. As I venture forward, the hush deepens, as though the very stones await my choice.

  One path leads to cleansing, to a chance at reclaiming who I once was. The other, to unstoppable power, at the risk of surrendering everything—my will, my memories, my soul.

  I brace myself against a pillar, breath unsteady, every fiber of my being aware of the swirling corruption in my veins. Beyond these walls, Kael hunts the Heart of the Cataclysm, and I feel his determination like a distant tremor. My time is short. Yet I’m here now, in the Weeping Sage’s domain. I can only hope this place holds the answers—and the salvation—I so desperately need. Gathering what remains of my courage, I step further inside.

  The room is a tomb. A withered figure sits on a throne of crystal, her face streaked with fossilized tears. Her hands clutch a Void Glass chalice, filled with a liquid darker than night. The air reeks of iron and regret.