The Aegis Blade slid into the pedestal with the sound of breath being held—and never released.

Light dimmed.

Sound vanished.

The chamber was torn away, as if peeled from reality.

Kaelen stood in void.

Not darkness—blue. An endless, liminal realm of cold light and mirrored ground. Beneath his boots, the surface shimmered like calm water, perfect and still, reflecting his form as though awaiting judgment.

When he stepped, the surface rippled outward—circular waves spreading through infinity. No walls. No horizon. No wind.

Only silence.

Then—

CRACK.

Two bolts of lightning tore across the void. Jagged white fangs clawing downward from nowhere, illuminating the space between them.

There, he appeared.

Aurelios.

God of War. God of Righteousness. Forger of the Aegis Blade.

He stood tall and unmoving, armored in charred iron and gleaming flame, his face veiled in divine fire. His voice—when it came—shook the void like stone splitting beneath a hammer.

“Kaelen.”

“You have passed the first trial. You have shown strength. But strength alone earns you nothing.”

Aurelios took a single step forward. The mirrored surface beneath him did not ripple. It bent.

“The Aegis Blade was not forged to serve the powerful. It was made to serve the just. The one who can wield its edge as judgment.”

Lightning arced across the skyless blue once more.

“Now comes your second trial. Mercy.”

With a flick of his hand, the void uncoiled. The mirror beneath Kaelen’s feet fractured into vision.

A landscape unfolded—hot, dry, and cruel.

Ashkarun.

A desert held captive by bone-white dunes and scorched canyons. The wind hissed across jagged stone. Shard-glass storms brewed at the northern peaks. Yet in this forsaken basin, a single vein pulsed with life:

The River Nahir.

It cut through the land like a black ribbon, thin and slow. Along its banks, towns clung like barnacles, carved into rock, built from sun-bleached ruins, tethered to survival by water and grit.

“Ashkarun,” Aurelios said, his voice low. “A land north of Elyndor, south of the Spine, abandoned by gods and kings.”

The vision zoomed closer.

Kaelen saw the Ashkari—their skin baked to bronze and gold, their eyes glinting like dusk-fire. They moved with hard purpose. Children trained with knives. Elders sat in silence, listening to drums echo through the canyon. They wore layered bone-colored cloth, woven with clan knots and symbols older than kingdoms.

“These are the children of a fallen empire. Once they walked with flame and foresight. Now they scrape their lives from stone.”

The vision drifted with the river’s flow—south, following the current through village after village, until it reached a place at the desert’s farthest edge:

A sprawling sunken city, built in spiraling tiers of black stone. Towers half-swallowed by dunes. Ruins choked with sand.

At its heart: the Hollow Well.

A vast pit where the River Nahir pooled—and vanished. No tributary. No return. The water was devoured by the desert itself, swallowed into unseen depths.

“This is the end of the river. And the seat of their power.”

“Beneath the Hollow Well lies the Sunvault—the last breath of their empire. Some say it holds ancient knowledge. Others believe it is a prison. But even the Ashkari do not fully understand what sleeps there.”

Lightning crackled above. Aurelios’s voice grew heavier.

“The river fades because it is chained.”

The vision lurched backward, following the Nahir’s winding path northward, upstream, through scorched valleys—until it reached the high cliffs at the desert’s northern mouth.

There, nestled in stone, stood an iron dam. Black gates sealed shut. Beyond it, a massive reservoir—lush and untouched.

And beside it: a northern city. Green. Prosperous. Alive.

“This is where it was stolen. Long ago, during the Shattering of Crowns and Flame, Ashkarun refused to kneel. The north cut the river in vengeance, and hoarded its life.”

Kaelen’s fists clenched.

“They called it balance. Justice. Protection. They sealed the river to protect their people. And doomed Ashkarun in the process.”

The vision darkened.

“Now, Kaelen, you must choose.”

Aurelios raised both arms.

Lightning flashed again, but this time it forked: one path to the east, one to the west.

“Unseal the dam. Let the Nahir flow freely. Ashkarun will live. Towns will rise. The Hollow Well may awaken. The Sunvault may open. But the flood will bring chaos. Not only to Ashkarun—but to the north. Borders will be tested. Secrets unearthed.”

The vision showed it: water rushing into ancient streets, dormant magic flickering to life beneath the Well. Ashkari clans clashing. The Solkarim walking from firelight with ancient weapons reborn.

Then it shifted.

“Or leave the dam sealed. Let the river fade. The Ashkari will die—not in war, but in silence. Their bones will be scattered into sand. Their memory etched in dust. The Sunvault will remain closed. The world will forget them.”

Aurelios lowered his hands.

“This is mercy, Kaelen.”

“Not the act of saving—but the burden of choosing who may be saved.”

Kaelen stared into the vision. He saw children along the riverbank, learning to fight before they could read. Women carving names into stone graves. Ash scattered into the Hollow Well, carried on the wind like prayer.

“They are not victims. They do not beg.”

“But they are dying.”

The Warfather stepped forward once more. His eyes burned through Kaelen’s soul.

“The Aegis Blade does not strike at command. It answers only to righteousness. Can you wield its weight without knowing the right path?”

“Can you choose, knowing that both roads lead to loss?”

The void began to shudder. Cracks split the mirrored ground. The sky folded in on itself like burning parchment.

“Go, Kaelen.”

“Follow the river.”

“Judge not with sympathy. Judge with truth.”

“And remember: Mercy is not peace. It is the line between war and extinction.”

CRACK.

The sky exploded with white fire.

Kaelen was pulled from the vision like a soul ripped from flesh.

He awoke on cold stone.

The pedestal still stood before him, steaming faintly.

The Aegis Blade was gone—but not lost.

It waited.

So did the desert.

And far to the south, at the edge of Vealoria, the Hollow Well drank its fill of the dying river, while a forgotten empire waited for either its rebirth…

…or its final breath.