Alden's breath caught in his throat as he took in the vastness of the Sanctuary. Floating islands drifted lazily in the sky, their surfaces covered in twisting bridges of stone and light. Strange symbols hovered in the air, shifting like they were written in the wind itself. The great obsidian tower at the center loomed high above everything, its spires reaching into the swirling purple sky.
"Where are we?" he asked, unable to hide the awe in his voice.
"The last stronghold of the forgotten world," Caelum answered, stepping forward onto the floating pathway that led toward the tower. "This is where magic still breathes freely, untouched by the Order or the decay of time."
Alden hesitated before following. The pathway beneath his feet wasn't stone, not exactly—it felt like stepping on solid air, firm but weightless at the same time. Below him, the void stretched endlessly, yet it didn't feel like falling was a possibility. The very air here held him, like an unseen presence was watching, keeping him steady.
"Who built this place?" Alden asked.
Caelum glanced at him. "It was not built. It was remembered."
Alden frowned. "That doesn't make sense."
"That is because you are still thinking like someone bound to the waking world," Caelum said simply. "Here, things do not follow the rules you know. Here, knowledge is not learned—it is recalled."
Alden didn't fully understand, but he knew better than to argue.
As they neared the tower, the air around them pulsed. Symbols carved into the obsidian walls glowed softly, responding to their presence. A deep, resonant hum echoed through the ground. The massive doors—twice as tall as any building Alden had ever seen—began to open on their own, revealing a spiraling stairway that stretched upward into impossible heights.
"The Sanctuary recognizes you," Caelum murmured.
Alden swallowed hard. "Why?"
Caelum didn't answer. Instead, they gestured for him to follow and ascended the stairs.
Alden took one last glance at the strange floating landscape around them before stepping inside.
The interior of the tower was even more unsettling.
The stairs spiraled in ways that shouldn't have been possible—sometimes curving upside down, sometimes disappearing into vast open spaces that should have led to nothing but air. Yet every step felt firm beneath Alden's feet.
Torches burned with silver flames along the walls, though there was no smoke, no scent of fire. The air itself hummed with an ancient presence.
They climbed in silence until finally, they reached a vast circular chamber.
At its center stood a great stone table, its surface covered in maps, scrolls, and books bound in worn leather. Around it, figures in long, flowing robes sat in silence, their faces hidden by deep hoods. Some were human. Others… were not.
Alden felt their gazes turn to him the moment he stepped inside.
Caelum moved forward, inclining their head slightly. "The heir has arrived."
A murmur rippled through the chamber. Some of the hooded figures nodded, while others remained still, their unreadable gazes fixed on Alden.
An elderly man at the far end of the table spoke first. His voice was deep, carrying a weight that settled into Alden's bones.
"You are late."
Alden stiffened. "Late?"
The old man's gaze was piercing. "The Arcane Throne has remained empty for far too long. The longer it remains unclaimed, the stronger the Hollow grows."
Alden glanced at Caelum, his mind spinning. "What does that mean?"
Caelum turned to him, their silver eyes dark with meaning.
"It means, Alden," they said, "that whether you are ready or not—the war for the Throne has already begun."