The heart throbbed in Raikuro’s hand, heavy and unnatural, as if it beat for a body the world no longer remembered. Each pulse sent ripples through the air, bending light, stirring the ashes into spiraling glyphs. The Hellsteel, still embedded in the ground, trembled—its silver edge now streaked with gold veins.

“I feel it too,” Ogrhul said, kneeling beside Raikuro. “The Maker’s blood... it’s not just power. It’s a memory. A command.”

Raikuro stared into the chained heart. “It wants to wake the world. Or burn it.”

Above them, the broken sky cracked with thunder. The air grew charged. The altar behind them dissolved into luminous dust, revealing a spiral staircase descending into the earth. It hadn't been carved. It had been waiting.

Raikuro rose, dragging the Hellsteel free from his foot with a grimace. The wound smoked but sealed quickly—unnaturally.

“We descend,” he said. “The Maker’s legacy doesn’t end here.”

They walked the spiral, heart in hand, flame trailing behind them like a second shadow. With every step downward, the world above faded—the stars dimmed, the winds died. It was as if the tomb led out of time itself.

At the base, they emerged into a cavern vast enough to hold a city. In its center floated a sphere of shattered worlds—fragments of memory, timelines that had unraveled under the warlock’s ambition. One fragment hovered close: Raikuro’s childhood. A flicker of his mother’s smile—then gone.

“Temporal core,” Ogrhul whispered. “This is where the warlock rewrote fate.”

The heart pulsed once more. The sphere responded—aligning, stabilizing. The Hellsteel hummed in sympathy.

A figure stepped from the shadows.

Not Dreadvorr.

Not a demon.

But a woman.

White hair. Gold eyes. Skin patterned with runes that bled light. She radiated calm—and sorrow.

“Raikuro,” she said. “You weren’t supposed to survive.”

He froze. “Who are you?”

“I was the last Flamekeeper. The one who bound the warlock with the blood spell. The one who helped your wife forge the anchor that tore him apart.”

Raikuro’s voice cracked. “You knew Lysia?”

“She gave everything. Her body. Her soul. Her memory. You were never meant to remember her.”

He stepped forward. “Then why do I?”

“Because the spell is failing.” The Flamekeeper turned to the sphere. “Dreadvorr seeks not just the warlock’s return—but to wear his memory like armor. With the heart, you could stop him. But it would cost you what little of Raikuro remains.”

Ogrhul growled, stepping between them. “He won’t become that thing. He chose.”

The Flamekeeper’s gaze narrowed. “Then he must choose again. The heart is not a weapon. It is a door. And it’s opening.”

From the sphere, a rift tore itself into being—pure black, rimmed in burning script. Through it, Raikuro saw a throne of bone. Dreadvorr stood before it, hands soaked in god-blood, and Lysia—shackled in spirit form—screaming.

“She’s still bound,” Raikuro said.

“She is,” the Flamekeeper nodded. “But not for long. The rift is the warlock’s true resurrection. Dreadvorr seeks to wear your face as the final piece.”

Raikuro gripped the Hellsteel, the heart pulsing in his other hand.

“I go through,” he said.

Ogrhul stiffened. “Alone?”

Raikuro looked to him. “You stay here. If I lose myself… destroy what’s left.”

Ogrhul snarled. “You order me to kill you?”

“I order you to protect this world.”

Before the demon could argue, Raikuro stepped into the rift.

The sound that followed wasn’t thunder or steel.

It was memory tearing.

And from the edges of time, the warlock stirred.