The door trembled.
As the first of seven ancient seals dissolved into ash, a sound like breathing stone echoed across the corridor of darkness. The marble surface pulsed faintly, each seal thudding in rhythm with Kael's heartbeat. Behind him, the others stood silent—blades ready, minds braced.
"Once we break the last seal," Merek said quietly, "there's no turning back."
"There never was," Kael replied.
He stepped forward again, and the glyph on his palm flared with renewed heat. The second seal shattered with a crystalline chime, releasing a gust of wind that tasted like dust and memory. The corridor rippled as if reality itself was peeling away.
A voice murmured behind the door.
A single word.
Kael.
Everyone froze.
"That wasn't you?" Lyra asked, eyes wide.
Kael shook his head. "No. That wasn't me. That was it."
The third seal burned.
This time, the wind carried images—fleeting visions stitched from forgotten timelines: a child's hand reaching through fire, a woman singing a lullaby in a language without words, a symbol carved into the skin of a still-living man.
"The Root is more than a place," Thorn muttered. "It's… memory made real."
The fourth seal broke.
A shriek rang out—high, long, and hungry. The walls of the corridor cracked as something clawed from the other side, eager to cross over.
"Fifth," Kael whispered, lifting his palm.
It shattered. The door bled golden light.
Merek stepped closer to Kael. "You don't have to do this alone."
"I do," Kael said. "But I'm glad you're here."
The sixth seal resisted. Unlike the others, it trembled with defiance.
Kael gritted his teeth and pressed the glyph harder against the surface.
And then—
CRACK.
The sixth seal exploded in a burst of white fire, throwing the group backward. Kael remained standing, charred smoke curling from his cloak.
The final seal remained.
A silence followed, deeper than any before.
And then, softly, Kael lowered his hand.
"I know this name," he said.
The others watched as the last glyph unraveled not from power, but from recognition.
With a whisper of release, the door opened.
Inside was no room, no hall.
It was a garden.
Or what once had been.
Massive trees with names carved into every leaf. Roots that tangled with bones. A sky made of words that drifted like clouds. In the center, atop a throne made of shattered scrolls, sat a figure robed in shadow and ink.
No face. Only a voice.
"You came, Kael Verrin."
"You know my name," Kael said.
"I wrote your name," the figure replied. "And now, you have come to write mine."
The others stepped forward, blades drawn.
"No," Kael said. "This isn't a battle."
He walked to the throne. "This is the moment the pen changes hands."
The figure rose. The ground trembled. The garden screamed.
And the true name war began.
To be continue...