The dream began not with a fall, but with the aftermath.

I stood in the shadow of the Eidolon Spire, its obsidian surface veined with silver light that pulsed like a dying star. The air reeked of ozone and iron—the metallic tang of old magic, the kind that had once sundered continents and birthed gods. Below me, the ruins of the bridge lay scattered, its stones carved with celestial runes now cracked and dull. Just like the poem, I thought, the words from Maris's scroll rising unbidden: "The bridge trembles, its bones groaning, as the weight of the unworthy cracks its spine." Had the judges foreseen this? Or had the Aevarin etched their curses into my fate long before I was born?

He stood with his back to the Spire, its obsidian curves clawing at the starless sky behind him. The shadows didn't just cling to him—they rippled, alive and restless, as if the very darkness resented being forced into the shape of a man. Moonlight snagged in the waves of his hair, not the soft silver glow of the court's enchanted gardens, but the cold, predatory sheen of a blade left in snow. His attire was reminded me of the dusk legion: fitted leathers the color of moss-choked ruins, reinforced at the joints with blackened steel, and a high-collared coat that swept to his boots like pooled ink. The sword at his hip was no ceremonial prop—its hilt, wrought in the angular style of the old blacksmiths. Utilitarian.

His face made me catch my breath.

The hood was gone. His hair, a riot of tight black curls, framed features sharp enough to draw blood—an aquiline nose, a jawline honed by centuries of scowling, and brows that arched with the arrogance of someone who'd once commanded armies. His eyes were the true weapon, though. Deep-set and darker than the Spire's heart, they weren't merely brown but the rich, bruise-like hue of cayenne spice. There was a youthfulness to his appearance, and a weariness that made me wonder how old he truly was. Almost handsome, in a haunting manner.

“You're staring,” he said, his voice like smoke over embers. He turned, and the shadows falling across his face made him look carved from marble—beautiful, terrifying, and disturbingly familiar, in a way that made my ribs ache.

“Who are you?” I demanded, forcing my voice steady as he closed the distance between us. The ground trembled beneath our feet, and somewhere deep within the Spire a low, resonant hum began—a vibration that shook the hollow where my magic should have been. I recognized that same hum from the judges' chamber, and with it came a flash of Lirien's void-like eyes: “The Spire's power could unmake him. And you... you are the match poised above his kindling.”

He tilted his head, studying me as if I were a riddle written in a dead tongue. “You already know my name. It’s etched into your bones, scribe. You just haven’t learned to read it yet.”

The arrogance in his words sparked a fire in my chest. I couldn’t mask my defiance. “I don’t play games with ghosts. Is that what you are?”

“A ghost?” His laugh was a blade dragged across stone, slicing through the silence. “I wish it were that simple.” He gestured toward the towering Spire, its apex a dagger piercing the sky. “I suppose we haven’t properly met yet. I thought you’d have made your way over here faster.”

“Over here?” I replied, turning my back on the grassy field—a gentler part of this nightmare. The lingering scent of crushed moonflower, the same incense that had filled the air during my failed ceremony, sharpened the familiar ache of inadequacy. Why did this feel like another test?

“Yes.” He stepped beside me, his shadow merging with the dark outline of the Spire as he looked down at the fallen bridge, barely visible in the abyss below. “I couldn’t cross that bridge. It was the link between our worlds—you had to cross it first before I could even speak to you.”

“Who are you?” I repeated, stepping away, my heart pounding with questions that his evasive words only deepened. His voice mingled with memories of my father’s biting admonitions—“The old ones speak in riddles to amuse themselves”—and I wondered bitterly if ghosts even had the decency to lie.

“You were supposed to cross the bridge weeks ago.” He pointed downward.

“Supposed?” The word was bitter on my tongue—like ashwine root, like dread. “I don’t take orders from figments.” I snapped, the words echoing off the ruins.

A smirk tugged at his lips. “Figments don’t bleed, Scribe.” With a casual flick of his hand, the restless shadows around him stilled, coalescing into something solid, undeniably mortal. “The bridge was a test. An invitation.”

“An invitation to kill me?” I countered, voice trembling between anger and fear.

“An invitation to wake you up, Tia.” He stepped closer, his boots crunching over rubble. Up close, I could see the scars—thin, silvery lines weaving along his collarbone as if something ancient had tried to unravel him, stitch by painstaking stitch. They reminded me of the cracks in the mirrors after Mother’s scream, and a shiver ran through me. I realized I couldn’t step back any farther—I was already standing at the very edge of the cliff where the bridge I’d once broken lay in ruins.

“This place isn’t a dream,” he murmured, his tone laden with gravitas that pressed against my soul. “It’s a threshold between what was and what will be.”

A surge of searing light from the Spire momentarily blinded me. When my vision cleared, he was mere inches away, his breath warm against my temple—a contrast to the chill that clutched at my heart.

“Who. Are. You,” I growled, forcing the words through clenched teeth.

“My name is Aziel,” he rasped, the name roughened by disuse and burden. “I am bound to this temple—and bound to you.”

“Bound?” My heart skipped a beat. “I’ve never seen you before—”

“No, you haven’t truly seen me,” he interrupted softly, his voice lowering to a near-whisper that sent a shudder through me. “I am older than the stones of this land, Tia. I have lingered here for centuries—a witness to the rise and ruin of empires.”

My mind reeled with unbidden thoughts: the Spire’s alignment, the prophecy of a mortal born at its convergence, the secrets my father so desperately tried to hide. Late-night councils with Dusk Legion commanders, burning archives of forbidden lore—had he known? Had he feared this moment?

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“What do you mean—bound to me? My father, with all his power, would have sensed any curse or hex upon me. Even if my magic remains dormant, I’d feel its weight.”

Aziel’s eyes softened with a strange, enigmatic amusement. “You would, if the one who cast it had not hidden it so cunningly.” He paused, as if weighing truths like coins. Then, reaching behind me, he swirled me around until my back no longer faced the abyss, steadying me with a touch that was both firm and gentle.

“Now, listen,” he said, his voice low. “This temple, these ruins—they remember the old ways. When continents were sundered and gods were born in fire and sorrow, a covenant was forged. I was entrusted with that covenant. And you, Tia Vale, carry its echo in your veins, though you know it not yet.”

I swallowed hard, my heart thumping rapidly, my voice barely a whisper. “What am I doing here, Aziel?”

Deep down, I knew the answer. The Spire sang for me, its wretched claws burrowing deep into my soul. I had always felt its pull, even as my father shrouded the past in lies and burned the pages of history he feared might free me. Yet, now, standing on this threshold, every fragment of my doubt wavered under the weight of destiny.

“You are here to awaken your destiny,” Aziel said, his eyes locked onto mine with unyielding resolve. “Did you truly think that you, the daughter of the longest-reigning Grandmaster, would remain completely powerless?”

“Wait a minute,” I interjected, touching the side of my head where I felt the ghost of unmanifested magic—a lingering echo of what I was meant to be. “The judges have already poked around in here. I’m mortal. I’m just a scribe for my father’s courts. This has been written in blood for centuries. I—I can’t be—”

“You might be,” Aziel interrupted, his smile a wry twist of shadow and light. His tone softened, almost inviting me to peer deeper into the darkness. “Maybe you are more than what they’ve ever believed you to be.”

In that charged moment, I searched his eyes—those deep, bruised pools—and found there a reflection of my own hidden strength, as well as the fear that clung to every heartbeat. I wondered if I could ever be more than just the daughter of a legacy that had long ago condemned me to silence.

The wind around us grew still, and I took a breath, steadying myself against the roar of my own uncertainty. “Then tell me, Aziel—if I’m bound to this legacy, to this temple, what choice do I really have? Am I destined to carry this curse, to be consumed by the very power that haunts these ruins?”

Aziel’s gaze softened further, as though sharing a secret too heavy for words. “Every legend, every curse, every promise begins with a choice, Tia. The bridge you crossed was not merely a passage—it was the start of your journey back to yourself. Embrace the old magic. Let it heal you, even as it sets you free.”

As his words settled over me, I felt the weight of generations, the echo of lost gods, and the relentless pull of a destiny written in the scars of history. I knew then that the threshold before me was not just a barrier between dream and waking—it was the crucible in which I would be remade.

In that moment, with the Spire’s ancient light flickering like a pulse in the darkness and Aziel’s gaze holding mine with unspoken promise, I realized that my fate was not sealed by my father’s fears or the judgments of the past. It was mine to shape—if only I dared to step forward and claim the power that was already etched into my bones.

A deep rumble echoed from within the Spire, as though the very earth were awakening from an ageless slumber. One by one, the four towers ignited with a spectral glow—the tallest last to burst into light, a silent herald of ancient power. A gust of wind, born from the abyss itself, swept past me and pushed against the front gates of the temple, as if beckoning me inward with a wordless command.

“Come.”

I started toward the entrance, my path marked by the remnants of once-vibrant flower beds now reduced to dead, war-torn carcasses. Every step on the uneven, rock-strewn path was accompanied by the squeak of my boots—a reminder that even in this threshold between worlds, I was painfully mortal. The wind seemed to claw at me, its spectral fingers wrapping around my ribs, pulling me forward. Just as I neared the threshold, a firm hand yanked me back, halting my progress with a sudden, jarring insistence.

"To claim the Spire is to claim the power of the Ones Who Came Before. But power demands sacrifice. Enter the Temple unprepared, and the Spire will devour you. Your mind will unravel—" His voice trailed off, heavy with the weight of unspoken centuries.

I couldn’t let the ominous warning wash over me without questioning it. "And your loved ones will rot from the inside out, cursed by the echoes of your failure—" I cut him off sharply, the bitterness of my own doubts rising up. "What does any of this have to do with me?"

Aziel reached into the swirling darkness at his side and produced a small, intricately carved talisman. It was set with an emerald that pulsed with a faint, ethereal glow and encircled by ornate carvings and ancient sigils of protection. With deliberate care, he pressed the talisman into my palm.

"Carry this," he instructed, his tone both commanding and tender. "It is a shard of the old world, a beacon against the encroaching night. It will guide you when the memories of the past and the weight of your future become too much to bear."

I clutched it as if it were the only thing anchoring me to a reality that still made sense—a cool pulse melding with the rapid beat of my heart. It reminded me of the locket I once held dear, and of those half-remembered legends of gods who burned into the river of time.

A tremor of realization stirred within me, a cold shock that seeped deep into my marrow. "I'm mortal?" I whispered, the words ragged, raw with the weight of truth. In that fleeting moment, I felt the stark vulnerability of my flesh—a fragile barrier against the relentless march of fate. The talisman in my hand, resplendent with its emerald glow, shone with an eerie beauty. Yet its brilliance was a cruel irony; no ward, no charm could shield me from the inevitability that gnawed at my insides. The beauty of its form was no guarantee against the creeping darkness that I feared would one day consume me, bone by trembling bone.

"The laws of your father's land do not apply here," Aziel said softly, his voice a gentle echo of sorrow and ancient wisdom. His eyes, deep and sorrowful. "In this realm, you are susceptible to every curse, every spell, every hex—and even the deadliest poison."

For a long, heavy moment, silence reigned between us. The only sound was the distant, rhythmic hum of the Spire—a deep, resonant pulse, like the heartbeat of an old, slumbering titan, steady and indifferent. In that silence, a terrible clarity washed over me: I could die here. Not in some far-off battle, not amid the grandeur of heroic sacrifice, but here—in the silent, unyielding realm of my dreams, where every hope and fear danced on the edge of oblivion. I was acutely aware that the void of mortality, with all its harsh finality, was not a distant concept but a present, palpable threat. In my head, in the quiet chambers of my deepest thoughts, I could already feel the shadow of death creeping in—a reminder that no ward or talisman, no matter how beautiful, could stave off the inevitable decay of flesh and spirit.

Then, as if leaning in to share a secret meant only for my ears, Aziel’s voice dropped to a near-whisper.

"Remember, Tia, that every legend, every curse, and every promise begins with a choice. The bridge you crossed was not just a passage—it was the beginning of your journey back to yourself. Embrace the old magic, let it heal your wounds, and set you free."

In that moment, standing on the precipice of the temple, I felt the weight of every expectation, every whispered doubt of my past. The broken remnants of ancient beauty, the lingering scars of wars fought in shadows, and the uncertain promise of a future written in old magic—all of it pressed upon me. And as Aziel’s final words mingled with the rising wind, I knew that the choice was mine alone: to step fully into the unknown, to claim the power that had been whispered of in my blood, or to retreat into the familiar numbness of what I already knew.

I took a trembling step forward, ready—if not to conquer fate, then at least to understand it.