The training chamber was still warm with the aftermath of Gold's last spell. Faint blue runes pulsed across the cracked obsidian floor, casting ghostlike shadows over the ancient stone pillars. Kane stood to the side, arms crossed, her breathing steady but shallow.
Across from them, Lord Varenth, cloaked in white armor lined with Ilyrian sigils, studied Gold like a scholar gazing upon a cursed artifact.
"You are not just a wielder," Varenth said. "You are a Living Relic."
Gold's jaw tightened. "I don't know what that means."
Varenth stepped forward, boots silent. "Your Pactum is not like the others. The fragment in your soul—it's not dormant. It's clawing to be whole. And that name... the one bound to your blood..." He tilted his head. "You haven't remembered it yet, have you?"
Gold said nothing.
"Then let me offer you clarity," Varenth said. "And power. The Kingdom of Ilyrion wants to recognize you—not as a weapon, but as a force. You will be free to train, to grow. You'll even have Kane by your side."
Kane scoffed under her breath. "How generous."
"I'm not here to manipulate you, child," Varenth said calmly. "But the Empire will hunt you down for what you carry. We'd rather ally with you before they reclaim you."
Gold looked down. The mark on his neck—twisted, charred like old ink—throbbed beneath his skin. It had never itched before.
"You think you're offering me freedom," Gold muttered. "But you're just a bigger cage."
"No cage," Varenth said. "Only truth. And I suspect you've been dying for some of that."
Before Gold could reply, Kane stepped forward. Her voice was quiet, but sharp.
"I saw him."
Both men turned.
"In my sleep… or maybe it was a vision. I don't know. But I saw the god you made a pact with."
Gold stared at her. "What?"
"There was a throne," she said, her voice faltering. "A throne made of bones. Mountains of them. A crown hanging in the air above it—shaped like a broken eye."
The room went cold.
"I heard a voice," she whispered. "It kept repeating a name… over and over. Ekrion. The Bound God."
Gold's pupils shrank. The sigil on his neck pulsed like a heartbeat. Pain flared beneath his skin.
"I didn't say that name to you," he said through clenched teeth. "How do you know it?"
Kane's eyes glistened. "Because when I saw him… I saw you too. And you weren't just making the pact. You were smiling."
Gold stumbled backward, breath caught in his throat. The pain in his neck spiked. A voice—hoarse and distant—echoed inside his skull.
"My will is your chain… and your soul, the key…"
He dropped to one knee, gasping.
Kane ran to him. "Gold—?"
His fingers clawed at the floor. Memories surged—images not his own: bodies burning, Kane screaming, and a shadow with chains for wings.
Then—
Nothing.
Silence.
When he opened his eyes again, the pain was gone. But something had changed.
Varenth crouched before him. "This is only the beginning. The more you use his power, the more he remembers."
Gold stood slowly, avoiding Kane's gaze.
"Then I'll need to get stronger," he said. "Faster than he can take from me."
Varenth smiled. "You will. Come to the capital. We'll prepare you for what's coming."
Velkain, silent all this time, finally spoke. "Careful, boy. Men who offer crowns often carry knives behind their backs."
"I'm not taking a crown," Gold said. "Just the truth."
They turned to leave.
But Kane suddenly stumbled, coughing violently. Blood speckled her palm.
Gold caught her. "Kane—!"
Then… everything stilled.
The torches dimmed.
The runes stopped glowing.
And in the silence, he appeared.
A figure stepped out from the far wall, though there had been no door, no opening. His cloak was stitched from strips of shadow. His face was hidden beneath a smooth white half-mask.
Gold froze. So did Varenth.
"You," Varenth whispered.
The figure ignored him. His gaze locked onto Gold.
"You've spoken his name," the figure said, his voice like cracked marble. "Now the echo will chase you."
Gold pulled Kane behind him. "Who are you?"
The figure took another step.
"I am the one who gave you the coin. The one who opened the door to the pact."He paused."I am the last bearer of true memory."
Varenth's voice rose, sharper now. "Nytherion."
The masked man turned toward him. "Still breathing, I see."
Kane whispered, "He's the one who brought us here…?"
Gold stared. "Why?"
Nytherion walked slowly to him.
"Because your god," he said, "was mine once too."
He removed his mask.
Beneath it was a face half-burned, half-beautiful. A brand—the same sigil as Gold's, but complete—glowed above his collarbone.
Kane stepped back. "You—You're a Pactum Wielder too?"
Nytherion smiled faintly. "Not anymore. I am the last unbroken soul."
He turned to Gold.
"If you wish to keep your sister alive, to keep yourself sane… then you must master your Pact before the next fracture. Or there will be nothing left of you but teeth and blood."
Gold swallowed. "So… what now?"
Nytherion's eyes flared with lightless fire.
"Now, we begin your real training."