Garen's footsteps crunched against the cracked, desolate ground. The wasteland stretched endlessly before him, barren and void of life, mirroring the emptiness clawing at his soul. The weight of Lyra's absence was a constant ache, a wound that even his ascended power could not heal. The image of her final moments haunted him—her radiant defiance in the face of Vorthen's wrath and the way her voice cracked when she told him to run.
She was gone.
Or was she?
Garen tightened his grip on the Aetherstone hanging from his neck, its soft glow dimmer than usual. Lyra had once spoken of a realm beyond mortal death, a place neither the living nor the gods could easily tread. The World Between was one such place, but Garen knew Lyra hadn't gone there. What if there was more? What if her soul was somewhere else, lingering, waiting for him to find her?
The thought ignited a flicker of hope amidst the crushing despair.
But he was not whole. His battle with Vorthen had left him scarred, his body battered and his newfound power unstable. The combined might of the Aetherstone and the Arcanium coursed within him, a tempest barely held in check. His injuries—both physical and spiritual—were proof that even ascension had its limits. He wasn't invincible. And worse, he knew the gods would not leave him to heal in peace.
As if on cue, the sky above him churned with an ominous glow. He instinctively raised his hand, summoning a barrier of shimmering aetheric energy. A bolt of divine lightning struck the barrier, cracking it but failing to pierce through. Garen staggered, beads of sweat forming on his brow as the effort drained him.
"They're hunting me," he muttered, his voice hoarse.
He couldn't stop moving. The gods' enforcers—celestial trackers, divine beasts, and worse—would hound him until he was either captured or destroyed. But Garen had a destination in mind, one that offered a sliver of hope.
Somewhere beyond the wasteland lay the ruins of an ancient temple, one that predated even the current pantheon. It was said to be a place of forbidden knowledge, built by the Old Pantheon before they were cast down. If there were answers to be found about Lyra's fate, they would be there.
The journey was grueling.
Every step felt heavier than the last as exhaustion threatened to pull him under. The injuries from his battle with Vorthen burned at his side, and his power flared uncontrollably at times, surging and then fading as if rebelling against his will. Yet he pressed on, driven by the memory of Lyra's voice and the faint hope that she could still be reached.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the wasteland into shadow, Garen sensed movement in the distance. His hand shot to the hilt of his blade as three figures emerged from the darkness. They were celestial trackers, humanoid beasts with glowing eyes and claws that shimmered with divine energy.
"You can't outrun the gods, Garen," one of them snarled, its voice dripping with malice.
"I'm not running," Garen growled.
The battle was brutal. Garen's movements were sluggish, his body screaming in protest with every swing of his blade. He relied on his aetheric power to fend off the trackers, channeling bursts of energy to block their strikes and retaliate with lethal force. But every attack drained him further, and for a moment, he feared they might overwhelm him.
In the end, he emerged victorious, but barely. The trackers lay in smoldering heaps around him, their forms dissolving into divine mist. Garen dropped to one knee, gasping for breath, his vision swimming.
By the time he reached the temple, the first rays of dawn were breaking over the horizon. The ruins loomed before him, their crumbling pillars and weathered walls a testament to the passage of time. Vines twisted around the ancient stone, and the air was thick with a sense of forgotten power.
Inside, the temple was eerily silent. The faint glow of runes lined the walls, their meaning lost to time. At the center of the chamber stood a pedestal, upon which rested an artifact—a shard of black crystal that seemed to pulse with a faint, rhythmic light.
As Garen approached, the Aetherstone around his neck began to resonate, its glow intensifying in response to the shard's presence. When he reached out to touch it, a surge of energy shot through him, and his mind was flooded with visions.
He saw glimpses of Lyra—a faint silhouette, her essence scattered like fragments of light. He heard her voice, faint and distant, calling to him from somewhere far beyond.
"She's out there," he whispered, his voice trembling.
The shard pulsed again, and a cryptic message echoed in his mind: To reclaim what is lost, walk the path of the eternal.
Before he could make sense of the words, the temple's entrance erupted in light. Garen spun around, drawing his blade, as a towering figure stepped into the chamber.
It wasn't a celestial tracker this time. This was something far more dangerous.
The figure was clad in golden armor, its face obscured by a mask of radiant light. It radiated divine energy, its presence oppressive and suffocating.
"I am Eryndor," the figure said, its voice echoing with godly authority. "You have gone too far, Aetherborn. The gods will not allow you to defy the cycle."
Garen tightened his grip on his blade, his eyes blazing with determination. "Let them try to stop me."
The chapter ends with the two figures standing opposite each other, the tension thick as battle looms.