Chapter 94 – The Iron Gate
The road to the Forge of Mourning was no road at all—just jagged rock, snow-slick and treacherous. The mountain's breath howled in their ears, and the wind carried voices that were not their own. It was a cruel ascent, carved by time and regret, flanked by cairns long buried in frost. No birds called. No trees stood. Only the ice, and the unyielding hush of the high places.
They had left Karrhollow before the dawn cracked, slipping through a forgotten pass marked only by a broken anvil and the rusted remains of a crown. The path twisted like the neck of a hanged man, offering no welcome and less forgiveness. The sky above shifted from black to grey, yet no warmth came with the light.
Lysa led, her eyes reading the stone like scripture, boots finding impossible holds as if the mountain itself whispered the path to her. Behind her, Tarn hauled a broken-limbed pack mule that carried little but silence and hope—an old canvas satchel filled with last rites and spare blades, a small sack of dried roots, and the fractured haft of his father's warhorn.
Caedren moved last.
For the first time since leaving the capital, he did not feel alone.
The mountain was watching.
Not with sight. But with memory.
He could feel it in the marrow of his bones. Each step forward was a page turned in an ancient ledger. He thought of the others who had come here—those who'd sought power, or peace, or erasure. Most had never returned. Those who had were no longer themselves.
Hours passed. Then the mist parted.
Before them stood the Iron Gate.
Massive. Seamless. Cold.
It was not carved into the mountain.
It was the mountain.
Its surface rose thirty feet high, dark metal veined with rivulets of stone, as if earth and alloy had bled together in ancient grief. The runes etched into it shimmered faintly, like wounds reopened by proximity. They shifted when stared at, curling into newer meanings—regret, silence, legacy.
Caedren stepped forward. The wind seemed to hush as he did. He raised his hand and placed it against the metal.
The mark of the Hollow Son pulsed. Once. Twice.
And then the Gate spoke.
Not with sound—but with memory.
He was no longer on the mountain.
He stood in fire.
In ruin.
The last day of the Old War.
Flames licked the bones of dead cities. Skyships fell like burning stars. Screams filled the air, yet none of them reached him. He stood amid ash, untouched, a ghost revisiting the moment the world cracked.
And before him—Ivan.
Not as statue, not as myth.
Alive.
Burned. Bleeding. But standing.
His armor was broken. One arm hung useless at his side. And beside him stood a child.
A boy. Dark-haired. Wide-eyed. Clutching a sword far too big for him.
One of the few Ivan had spared. Taken in. Trained.
Not Caedren.
But Thalen.
Ivan turned to Caedren through the memory. No— to whoever stood at the Gate. His voice was weary, cracking with smoke and truth.
"This Forge is not salvation. It does not give. It takes. To wear what lies within, you must leave behind the part of yourself that fears becoming what you must."
Caedren blinked.
The fire faded.
He was at the Gate again.
And it was open.
Just enough for one.
"I go alone," Caedren said.
"No," Lysa snapped, stepping forward, face pale in the cold. "You don't get to make that choice alone."
He stopped her with a look. Not harsh. Not final. Just certain.
"The Forge tests the soul, not the sword."
Tarn grunted. "If you die in there, you better haunt me useful."
Caedren allowed himself a tired smile. He squeezed Tarn's shoulder. Brushed Lysa's hand briefly.
Then stepped through.
And the Gate sealed behind him.
No sound. Just sudden silence, thick and absolute.
The cold vanished. The light dimmed, but not into darkness.
Ahead was a chamber, impossibly vast, lit by nothing and everything.
Pillars of obsidian and rusted brass rose around him, carved with symbols of kings long gone—some crowned, others broken. The air shimmered with heat and sorrow. Whispers moved through the space like rivers beneath glass.
The walls shimmered with histories—battles lost and won, betrayals and buried names, oaths shattered and reforged.
And in the center—
A pedestal.
Upon it—
A crown.
Black as night. Sharp as regret. Glowing faintly with a flicker not of fire—but memory. As if every soul that had once worn it had left a sliver behind.
But Caedren was not alone.
Thalen stood there already.
He turned at the sound of Caedren's steps, eyes unreadable.
"How?" Caedren asked, blade already half-drawn.
Thalen didn't flinch. "I was always meant to be here," he said. "You were just... the test."
"Ivan chose me—"
"No," Thalen said calmly, voice low but firm. "He pitied you. He trained me. He gave me the crown's true burden. But now you're here, and so we must finish this. One wears the crown. The other is buried with it."
Caedren's blade sang as he drew it fully, the runes on its edge flaring faintly in the light of memory.
Thalen drew his own—a thin, elegant blade etched with the Dominion's seal.
And as the echoes of their clash rang through the Forge, the mountain remembered war once more.
Their blades met in fury.
Sparks lit like stars in a dead sky.
Steel rang against steel, echoing through the chamber like prophecy. Caedren fought with desperation honed by truth, each strike a cry for the future. Thalen countered with precision, as if every move had been written years ago in the margins of fate.
They circled. Clashed. Broke apart.
Sweat dripped. Blood followed.
"You still don't understand," Thalen growled, parrying a vicious strike. "This crown doesn't free the world. It silences it. Ends the choices that led us here."
"And who decides that end?" Caedren shouted. "You?"
"I decide nothing. I end it. That's the mercy."
They crashed together again. Caedren drove Thalen back, blade flashing like lightning. The crown pulsed with light as if aware of the contest, as if choosing.
"You think Ivan built this place to bury the world?" Caedren gasped, dodging a thrust.
"I think he built it to finish it."
They locked blades. Faces inches apart. Old brothers, now strangers.
"I loved you," Caedren whispered.
"So did I," Thalen replied. "That's why it has to be me."
With a roar, Caedren broke the lock and slammed his hilt into Thalen's jaw. The other man staggered. Dropped his blade.
Caedren lunged.
And stopped.
Sword at Thalen's throat.
Breath ragged. Heart broken.
"I won't wear the crown," he said. "Not like this."
Thalen, kneeling, bled from the mouth. "Then you've already lost."
Caedren turned to the crown.
It pulsed. Waiting.
He stepped forward.
And whispered—not a command, but a memory.
"Ivan didn't build this to end the world. He built it to remind it."
He reached out.
Touched the crown.
And all went still.