They camped in the tower that night, beneath a broken dome that once held stars in its ceiling. Ashwood's heart had long stopped beating, but the wind still carried whispers. Not angry—just lost.
Tellen sat by the old hearth, scribbling into his journal with charcoal.
"I counted fourteen knightly spirits," he muttered. "Seven bore the sigil of the Flamewardens. Six of the Oathsworn. One… one was hers."
Arjuna, leaning against the stone wall, turned his head slowly. "Hers?"
Tellen hesitated. "The Ember Vow. The knight who once guarded Nyssara's flank. Lady Seres of the Black Flame."
A flicker moved through Arjuna's expression, but he said nothing.
The silence thickened. Outside, the sky wept quiet snow.
Then Arjuna stood.
"I'm going down," he said. "To the Veil."
Tellen looked up, startled. "Now?"
"I saw it in the basin," Arjuna said. "The path beneath the tower. I was here once. I made an oath beneath the stone roots. To her."
"You're sure it's not just a memory echo?" Tellen asked, rising.
"I don't know," Arjuna said. "But it's waiting."
He descended alone.
Beneath the tower lay a sealed staircase, wound tight as a serpent's spine. Roots broke through stone. Cold licked at his skin, though no wind stirred.
At the bottom was a black door—smooth obsidian, no handle.
His sword hummed faintly.
Arjuna pressed the blade's tip to the door's center.
It opened.
What lay beyond was not a room.
It was… a veil.
A thin shimmer of light, hanging in midair like a curtain spun from flame and memory. It pulsed faintly, like a heart beating in slow death.
And beyond it—shadows. Shifting forms. A battlefield locked in eternal dusk.
Arjuna stepped closer. The warmth of it filled his bones.
The veil whispered in a voice not heard in a thousand years:
"One step, and you are no longer whole.
One step, and you carry us all."
He reached out—and the veil touched his skin.
Flame. Searing. But not painful.
He saw flashes.
Nyssara in silver armor, her hair afire, a crown of thorns across her brow.
A thousand knights kneeling in ash, blades buried in their chests.
A boy—himself—sobbing as he dropped a shattered crown into a pit of light.
And then her voice, clear, close:
"You were mine, once. Not for war. Not for oaths.
But for a promise you've already broken."
He fell to his knees.
The veil pulsed.
Arjuna reached out—and this time, he did not hesitate.
He passed through.
It was night.
A battlefield frozen in time.
Ashwood as it had once been—alive and burning. Screams filled the air. The banners of the Flamewardens tore in the wind.
And at the center, atop a ridge of shattered stone, stood Nyssara.
She wore no crown. No armor.
Only a tattered black dress and a silver chain around her throat.
She turned as he approached.
"Arjuna," she said, as if no time had passed. As if he'd never left.
He stopped. His breath caught.
"I remember this," he said softly. "The eve of the Black Vow."
She smiled.
"Do you remember what you said?"
"No," he whispered.
She stepped forward, her eyes gleaming like dying stars.
"You said, 'If the gods fall, I will not mourn them. I only care for what I can hold.'"
He swallowed.
"And then you held me," Nyssara said. "And I believed you."
Wind roared across the field. The vision wavered.
Arjuna reached out—but she was already fading.
"You made the Vow," she said. "And broke it. You cannot change what follows."
He shouted, "Wait!"
But the memory collapsed into ash.
He was back in the chamber beneath the tower, knees against the cold stone. The veil had dimmed.
And in its center, floating faintly, was a single glowing ember.
He reached out—and took it.
It didn't burn.
Instead, it hummed with her voice. A fragment of her essence.
A memory she'd left for him.
A promise, or a warning.
Arjuna rose slowly, his hand curled around the ember.
Tellen was waiting at the top of the stairs.
"Well?" the historian asked, wary.
Arjuna stared past him, into the ruins.
"I remember the night the world burned," he said.
"And I remember who held the match."