The Void-Bound Path was no mere corridor—it was a passage carved into the space between thoughts, lined with truths too ancient for words. The light within it bent unnaturally, and even the echo of Zeirion and Aralya's footfalls was consumed before it could be born. Here, silence did not merely reign—it devoured.
As they walked, the veil between realms thinned.
Their presence stirred dormant things. Forgotten spirits wailed beyond the rift, remnants of civilizations consumed by the very laws Zeirion had once rewritten. Aralya's steps were light, graceful, but her hand never left his. Her gaze remained forward, determined.
"They remember you," she said, eyes narrowing as they passed a frozen echo of a once-great divine beast, now imprisoned in glass-like crystal.
Zeirion glanced at it. "They always do. Memory is the one prison even death cannot break."
The corridor split ahead—three paths branching into chaos. Each radiated an aura: one of blood, one of sorrow, and one of stillness.
"They test us," Aralya murmured.
"No," Zeirion said. "They fear us."
He chose the path of stillness.