The island loomed ahead like a slumbering beast carved from frost and sorrow. Its frozen spires pierced the low-hanging sky, groaning under the weight of forgotten centuries. Blue fire danced along the ridgelines, cold and unwelcoming, casting distorted shadows across the glassy sea.
Ael stood at the prow as the ship glided silently toward the glacier gate. The heartbeat had faded—but its memory lingered, throbbing in his veins.
Nyra emerged from below deck, her face pale and drenched in sweat. "The engine's barely stable. Whatever's inside that island is interfering with the flow of mana."
"How long can it hold?" Kaelin asked.
"Not long enough," she muttered. "We need to be quick."
Veyne leaned over the edge, grimacing at the drowned crawling just beneath the water's surface. "Yeah, no pressure. Just a bunch of cursed corpses and an undead god waiting to roll out the welcome mat."
The ship finally drifted into the narrow inlet. The icy cliffs curved in like teeth, and ahead stood a towering gate embedded into the glacier itself. It was sealed with six iron chains, each thicker than a man's torso, their ends sunken into the ice like roots.
Sigils glowed faintly across the surface—wards older than kingdoms.
Ael stepped down onto the frost-laced shore, boots crunching into ancient snow. The others followed silently.
He reached out to touch the gate—only to be hurled back by a sudden pulse of energy. He landed on one knee, frost crawling up his arm. The others drew weapons instinctively.
Then came the voice.
Low. Echoing. Ancient.
"You seek to unbind what must never awaken."
Ael rose, his breath visible in the cold. "We seek knowledge. Nothing more."
"Knowledge is the beginning of ruin," the voice replied.
The ice to their right cracked open. From it emerged a towering figure—nine feet tall, robed in tattered white, with a helm shaped like a stag skull. Blue fire burned in the empty eye sockets.
"The Guardian," Nyra whispered. "He's not a being… he's a memory made flesh."
The Guardian stepped forward, holding a long staff tipped with a prism of ever-shifting light.
"You are not the first to come here," the Guardian said. "You will not be the last. But know this: only one may pass through the Gate."
"Only one?" Elen repeated. "Why?"
"Because only one may carry the truth and survive it."
Ael stepped forward, ignoring the others' protests. "Then it will be me."
The Guardian turned to face him fully. "Why do you seek the Sleeper, Heartless King?"
That title stung more than it once did.
He answered truthfully. "To stop the Executioner. And… to understand myself."
A moment of silence passed.
Then the Guardian raised his hand. "To gain entry, you must endure the Trial of Reflection. Face that which you hide, and that which hides in you."
Without waiting, the Guardian struck the icy ground with his staff.
The world shifted.
In a blink, Ael was alone—standing in a mirror of the glacier, but one devoid of his companions, the ship, or the wind.
Just endless white.
And before him stood…
Himself.
But younger. Colder. Dressed in the imperial robes of his former life. His eyes were dead, his voice sharp.
"You never regretted what we did," the mirrored Ael said. "You regret what you've become."
"I was a tyrant," Ael answered. "I killed millions. I ruled through fear. I feel that now."
"You say that as though feeling it absolves you." The mirrored Ael stepped closer. "You've grown weak. Emotions have made you hesitate. You care about them—Nyra, Elen, even Veyne. What happens when they die because of your softness?"
Ael didn't flinch.
"They made me more than a machine," he said. "I don't want to be who I was."
"You don't get to want," the mirror spat. "You were born to rule. Born to command. Born alone."
Ael closed his eyes.
And punched the mirror's face.
It shattered like glass.
And the world broke.
When he opened his eyes again, he was back—kneeling before the Gate.
The Guardian towered over him. "You have passed."
Ael stood, shoulders heavy but firm.
"You may enter. The others must wait. Inside… lies not just the Sleeper, but your origin."
Ael looked to Nyra. She gave a hesitant nod.
"We'll hold the line," she said. "Go."
Without a word, Ael stepped toward the Gate.
The chains uncoiled, one by one, slithering into the ice. The sigils flared. The cold deepened.
And the Gate opened.
Behind it… was darkness.
And in that darkness—
The Sleeper stirred.