The Warden walked until the trees changed.
The earth beneath his boots softened, no longer the cracked stone of old roads but a bed of moss and loam that muffled his steps. The wind took on a low, humming tone, as though the forest itself had begun to murmur secrets from its roots. The sun — or what remained of it — dimmed behind veils of floating dust and light-filtering spores.
Ahead, like a scar etched into the living forest, a wall of stone emerged — ancient and unmoved. Carved across its surface were runes he didn't recognize, weathered but still pulsing faintly with meaning. In its center stood an archway with no door.
Only silence.
And behind that silence… a pressure without sound.
The cane at his side pulsed. Not in alarm. In recognition.
"The Whisper Gate," he said aloud.
He had heard the name once — long ago, in a whisper from a dying scholar whose eyes bled starlight. A sealed passage said to lead nowhere. Built before the First Accord, when time and magic were still in argument.
One of Five Seals — forgotten by men, feared by the Hollowed Court, and never meant to open again.
Now, something inside was awake.
He stepped closer.
The archway shimmered faintly — not with light, but heatless distortion, like breath on glass. On either side of the gate, two sentinels knelt in stillness: statues made of blackened wood and feathered metal, their hands on the hilts of rustless swords, their heads bowed as if dreaming.
They didn't move.
Until he crossed the threshold.
Both heads snapped up in unison, movements swift and fluid.
Their eyes lit with dim golden fire that cast no shadow.
One spoke, its voice deep, splintered, and wooden:
"State your name."
The Warden paused.
The cane whispered something — a phrase in a forgotten tongue — but he didn't catch it fully.
He answered slowly, voice steady.
"Crimson Warden."
The second sentinel tilted its head, joints creaking.
"Incomplete title. Specify designation."
His jaw tensed.
"Bearer of the Fractured Flame. Guardian of the Echoes."
The gate pulsed — once. The air shook like a breath being drawn.
Then the statues rose and stepped aside, moving as if pulled by ancient memory.
"You may pass," they said together. "But not alone."
He frowned. "Then who comes with me?"
A figure emerged from the woods like a punctuation to the question.
Short. Cloaked. Hooded. Carrying a satchel that jingled softly, glass tones clinking like fragile wind chimes in motion.
They walked without fear — not around the sentinels, but straight between them, like they'd done it a thousand times before.
The hood fell back.
A young woman. Pale skin, silver braids tucked neatly, a sigil burned into the skin over her left eye — the unmistakable mark of a Chroneseer.
A reader of time.
"You're early," she said.
He narrowed his eyes. "You know me?"
"Not yet," she said. "But I will."
The cane remained still — not threatened, but watchful.
"I was sent by the last one who remembered you — the version of you that never became Warden."
"You're speaking in riddles."
"No," she said. "I'm speaking in truths you buried."
She turned toward the gate and gestured.
"Inside, you'll see the first fragment of what you were before. And if you're not careful, it will see you back."
The Warden stepped through the Whisper Gate.
And everything stopped.
There was no tunnel.
No stone walls. No flickering torchlight.
Only sky.
He stood on an invisible platform, suspended high above an ocean of mirrors — each one floating, spinning, reflecting a different version of him.
One wore a crown forged of bone and light.
One dragged chains carved from regret.
One knelt before a throne made of burning ash.
One simply laughed — and it was the most terrifying of them all.
"These are possible truths," the Chroneseer said from behind him.
"They're lies," he muttered.
"No," she whispered. "They're roads you almost walked."
One mirror began to glow brighter than the others.
Drawn to it, he stepped closer — and it pulled him in, not physically, but deeper. Into memory. Into a mind that could have been his.
He stood in a city of gold and flame.
People bowed as he passed.
Children wore crimson masks in his likeness.
Banners flew overhead — not with the Warden's sigil, but his face.
"This is who you almost became," said a familiar voice.
Hollowlight.
Standing beside him. Whole. Clean. Smiling.
"You ruled. You burned the Court. You saved the world… by owning it."
"This isn't me."
"It was," Hollowlight said. "And it still could be."
The illusion thickened.
Crowds chanted.
Power bled from his fingers.
The cane in his grip had changed — no longer a razorbill's head.
It had become a crown of blades.
He dropped it.
"This path ends in tyranny," the Warden whispered.
"All paths end in something," Hollowlight said. "You just haven't decided which throne you're willing to sit on."
The vision cracked. Then shattered.
He collapsed to his knees on the glass platform.
The mirrors around him spun in panic.
The Chroneseer appeared again and knelt beside him.
"You saw too much," she said gently.
"I saw a warning."
"No," she said. "You saw a seed."
The platform rumbled.
The gate was closing.
She pulled a vial from her pouch — silver liquid sloshing inside, his own sigil etched on the glass.
"Take this when you start hearing your own voice… but it's not you speaking."
"What is it?" he asked.
"A ward," she said. "Against yourself."
He took it, tucked it beneath his coat, and stepped backward through the Whisper Gate as it sealed behind him with a sound like thunder folding in reverse.
The woods were silent again.
But the cane burned hot in his hand.
And deep inside his mind — where thought became shape — one mirror remained.
Unseen.
Unbroken.
And in it… Hollowlight waited.