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Years ago. Lysara, kneeling beside a bound man as torches burned. She looked into Erydon Vale's eyes, and in them saw fear, devotion… and something too intimate to name. She gave the order to light the fire—and didn't stay to watch it burn.
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Ashengar's northern corridor, beneath the charred basilica ruins.
The storm came without warning.
No thunder, no wind—just a cold, choking mist that crawled from the earth like breath from the dead. Lysara Vale stood on the shattered steps of the basilica where the High Order once knelt, her cloak billowing in the ghostlight.
She shouldn't be here.
Not alone. Not without a blade drawn. Not without a prayer.
But the letter had summoned her.
"He died screaming your name."
A blood-inked script. No seal. No return.
The bones of Ashengar whispered around her, each cracked stone carrying echoes of executions and false absolutions. She had once condemned dozens here.
Now she hunted ghosts.
And one ghost, in particular, was hunting her back.
She entered the ruins, her boots silent against the mosaic floor—much of it defaced, burned, clawed apart as though beasts had danced on holy ground.
A voice stirred the air.
"Lysara."
It wasn't Dren's voice.
It wasn't even warm.
It was Erydon Vale's.
He stepped out from the smoke—no longer cloaked. No longer masked.
Lysara froze.
The man before her was a scarred memory brought to flesh. His once-regal face had been scorched, the left side twisted with holy burns that glowed faintly like branding. His eye on that side was clouded white, a permanent mark from the cleansing fires of the Inquisition.
She remembered lighting that pyre.
"You," she whispered. "You were dead."
Erydon smiled—a slow, bitter curl. "No. Just forgotten."
He took a step forward. His presence filled the basilica like a storm swelling behind stained glass.
"You left me in the pyres," he said, voice soft but sharp as flint. "I begged you. I said your name. I watched your silhouette against the flame. You didn't even flinch."
"I thought you were guilty," she said.
"I was. Guilty of loving the wrong woman." His gaze lingered. "You."
Lysara's hand hovered near her weapon. "This is madness."
Erydon didn't move. "Is it? Or is it the truth you ran from? They told you I conspired with blood witches, with Dren's old cult. But I never bent the knee to Dren. Only to you."
She looked away.
"You were a fool."
"I was a believer." His voice cracked, suddenly raw. "And when they dragged me into that square, I looked for you. I thought maybe you'd protest. Maybe you'd look sad. But you stared like a stranger."
She closed her eyes. The memory was molten behind her lids.
"I had to choose the Order."
"No," he said. "You chose fear."
His steps echoed as he circled her.
"I've been watching ever since. Rebuilt by rage. Forged by fire. And now I wear the mark you gave me."
He unfastened the top of his coat, revealing his chest—there, beneath the flesh, were holy glyphs burned into his skin. Half corrupted. Half divine.
"They call me a ghost. A traitor. But I am what the Inquisition made me. And what you abandoned."
Lysara's voice trembled: "Why bring me here?"
"To remind you what you cost," he said. "And to give you a gift."
From his coat, he tossed a scroll at her feet.
A map.
Not just any map—but one drawn in Dren's hand.
"How did you get this?" she demanded.
Erydon's mouth curled again. "He wanted you to see it. Or maybe... I stole it from him. Either way, it leads to the next gate. The next key. And I want to see what you'll do when your love and your guilt drag you in opposite directions."
She didn't pick it up.
"You could have killed me," she said.
He stepped closer—close enough that she could smell the ash and incense in his breath.
"Death is too kind," Erydon whispered. "I want you to remember."
Then he leaned in, brushing his burned lips to her ear:
"Next time you dream of him... ask Dren who lit my pyre."
And just like that—he vanished into the mist.