The winds had changed.
Aelric stood atop the jagged ridge, sand spilling in eddies around his boots as he looked out over the endless expanse of the Desert of Ythar. Behind him, Liora adjusted the wrappings across her face, shielding herself from the rising heat. Thalin, ever quiet, whispered a tracing spell into the desert air, his hands glowing faintly as they sketched patterns in the dust.
Far to the west, just visible beyond the glare of the sun, a tower shimmered like a mirage—no ordinary tower, but one forged from blackened glass and floating stone, turning slowly as if caught in an invisible current. The Obsidian Watchtower, Thalin had called it. A relic of the old world. A place even the stars feared to look upon.
"We've been watched since dawn," Liora said, scanning the horizon. "Something's keeping pace."
"I know," Aelric replied quietly, eyes narrowing. The Starbrand on his palm pulsed with slow, rhythmic heat—not danger yet, but warning.
Nyara prowled ahead in the shifting sands, her fur gleaming like moonlight, the tips of her ears flicking with every sound. She stopped suddenly, one paw raised, and let out a low growl.
Aelric drew his blade.
The sand erupted to his left.
A figure burst from beneath the dunes—cloaked in scorched leather and marked with obsidian runes that crawled like ash across his skin. His eyes were pitch black. Not empty—swallowed. Consumed by something far older than death.
More rose behind him. Half a dozen at first. Then a dozen more. The Dune-Stalkers of Ythar.
The Memory of the Void
The battle was silent at first—too fast, too sudden. Blades clashed with crackling bursts of fire and starlight. Liora moved like flame incarnate, slicing a path through their attackers. Thalin sent out waves of protective energy, shielding Aelric as he fought to clear a space around Nyara, who had leapt onto one Stalker's back with claws bared.
But there were too many.
And they weren't dying like normal foes.
"We strike them down," Liora growled, panting, "and they rise again. Something is binding them."
"They're echoes," Thalin said, grim. "Trapped by ancient oaths. Their spirits won't pass on because their bodies are anchored by the Heart of Ythar."
Aelric turned sharply. "Then we find the Heart—and break it."
"It lies in the Watchtower," Thalin answered, gesturing toward the looming structure. "But we must get there first."
The March of Shadows
They fled, not as cowards but as tacticians.
Under Thalin's warding dome, they raced across dunes the color of molten copper, the ground cracking underfoot as the cursed spirits of Ythar pursued them.
Inside the dome, Aelric gritted his teeth. "We're not outrunning them forever."
"We don't have to," Thalin said. "We just need to make it to the tower. The obsidian will mute the dead's reach. They fear what was built before the Sundering."
Liora scoffed, her blade steaming. "They fear nothing. But maybe they remember."
They reached the edge of the Watchtower grounds just as the last of the light dimmed from the twin suns. The tower pulsed with darkness, but it welcomed them with open doors—massive slabs that slid into the earth, revealing spiraling steps carved in starlit basalt.
Inside, the air grew cold. Ancient glyphs lit their path. The tower spoke in whispers—not with malice, but with memory.
Aelric's Trial
Deep in the tower's heart, they found it.
The Heart of Ythar.
Suspended in the air, a crystal the size of a man's skull hovered above a dais marked with constellations that had long since vanished from Eldoria's sky. It pulsed with unnatural rhythm, each beat echoing in Aelric's chest.
But as he stepped closer, the crystal flared—and he was no longer in the tower.
He stood in a memory.
A battlefield. Screams echoed from every direction. Fire rained from the sky, and among the chaos, a figure walked—tall, cloaked in void and flame. Morvath. His eyes locked with Aelric's.
"You think you are different?" the shadow said. "You carry light, but you were born from the same stars as me."
"I carry choice," Aelric whispered.
The memory shattered.
He was back in the tower.
Liora was shouting. Thalin held up a barrier. The Heart pulsed again—and cracked.
Breaking the Curse
Aelric raised the Starblade. "This ends now."
He slashed through the air, not striking the Heart but the glyphs that anchored it to the plane. Lines of power burst from the stone floor, writhing like serpents. He plunged the blade into the center of the pattern, invoking the stars by name—calling upon the legacy of those who came before.
The crystal screamed.
And shattered.
Outside, the wails of the Dune-Stalkers fell silent. The tower groaned and began to collapse.
Escape and Revelation
They escaped with moments to spare, tumbling into the sand as the Obsidian Watchtower crumbled behind them. Dust and shards of memory drifted into the night sky.
Aelric lay back, gasping for breath, feeling the weight of what they'd done. The Heart of Ythar was destroyed. The curse was lifted.
But the stars above were wrong.
Twisted.
Moving.
Thalin sat up first. "Aelric... the heavens have shifted."
"What does that mean?" Liora asked.
"It means," Thalin said grimly, "that something has changed the celestial map. Something is rewriting the laws of our world."
Aelric stood slowly, staring up.
And in that moment, he felt it—a pull beyond even the stars. A place beyond Eldoria. A call that resonated with his very blood.
"There's more," he said.
Liora frowned. "More what?"
"This wasn't the end. Just a veil. We've broken through—but the real war is somewhere beyond."
A Journey Without a Map
That night, as they camped under unfamiliar stars, a streak of light burned across the heavens. A comet—no, not a comet. A vessel.
It crashed into the mountains north of Ythar, shaking the desert like thunder.
Thalin whispered, "That wasn't of this world."
Liora's eyes narrowed. "Then neither are we, anymore."
Aelric closed his hand around the glowing Starbrand, his voice quiet but sure.
"We're not done. We're just crossing the threshold."
Far in the distance, a portal shimmered into being. Not of fire. Not of shadow.
But of stars.
And something—someone—was waiting on the other side.
~to be continued