The northern frontier welcomed them with a wind that did not belong to the sky. It was the exhalation of ancient tombs, a slicing gust sharper than a barber's blade, carrying flecks of snow that were not white, but ashen, staining armor and leaving behind the stench of sulfur and regret. The ground beneath their horses' hooves had turned into black ice, reflecting their pale faces like the dead awaiting burial.
Sultan, leading the march, white hair whipping like a banner in a lost battle, felt a cold he had never known. The heat of the Flame Mark on his shoulder struggled in vain, gnawing at his bones, reminding him that the prophecy he bore was a burden before it could be a destiny.
Behind him, Khalid rode like a ghost on a nightmare. His hand clenched around the Dead Crystal Heart, trembling—not from cold, but from the muted pulses emerging from the malformed relic. Those pulses synced with his own heartbeat, as if the mark embedded in his spine by the emperors had finally found its resonance.
Laila of the Winds wrapped herself in a cloak of white Hoadar fur, yet her amber eyes remained fixed on the horizon, scanning the spiraling clouds above the Nape Mountain, where the magnetic center of the Great Displacement lay. The air was oxygen-starved, heavy with gases that made every breath a struggle, as if the world itself tried to strangle those daring to approach its open wound.
"Bind yourselves together!" Sultan roared, voice barely piercing the wind that had begun to swirl into a miniature storm. He drew a treated leather rope, tied it around his waist, and flung it to Khalid and Laila, binding them as one against the fury of a nature desecrated by dark magic.
Not long after, the sky began to rain frozen blood—crimson shards striking their armor with metallic screams, while the ground hissed like a nest of snakes at every impact. Suddenly, the horses balked, refusing to move another step, their manes graying under fear's weight.
Sultan dismounted first, armored boots cracking the ice with veins of blue light snaking across the frozen ground. "The horses won't continue. We walk," he said, hand on the heavy hilt of his sword. Laila followed gracefully, though rigid from the cold, while Khalid lingered a few seconds longer, staring into the void.
"Khalid! Get down!" Sultan bellowed. With a strange, jerky motion, Khalid leapt, as if his body no longer fully obeyed his will. The horses bolted southward, fleeing a monster unseen by human eyes.
They began scaling the first cliffs, jagged rocks twisting like tortured men frozen in stone. Laila summoned warm gusts from her hands to shield their faces, but the cold coiled around their legs like iron shackles.
Midway, at the mouth of a dark cave glowing faintly purple, emerged the Threshold Guardian. Not an ordinary sentinel, but a minor emperor—a towering three-men-high figure, clad in armor of human bone, face featureless except for a wide maw dripping black ichor, and a single cyclopean eye glowing with dead light.
The guardian spoke no words. He raised a hand ending in crystalline claws and struck the ground. The mountains cracked beneath them, and skeletal figures shrouded in ice rose—knights of the Broken Covenant, fallen in the First Displacement.
Battle erupted instantly. Sultan unleashed the fire from his shoulder; his sword became a blade of white light, sparks melting surrounding snow. In a fluid motion, he struck the first skeleton into ash and water, pivoted to block an incoming armored strike with a shoulder ram, shattering ribs with the Water Mark, making his body weigh tons on impact.
Khalid fought with feral instinct, abandoning his dagger, manipulating his shadows like cords to strangle and crush heads in strikes wrapped in solid darkness. A low, terrifying laugh echoed in sync with the Crystal Heart on his belt.
Laila spun like a cyclone, fan slicing icy guards before they could reach Sultan's cloak. But the Threshold Guardian was relentless, lunging at Sultan with a massive body, crystal hand aimed at his chest.
Sultan met the strike with his sword. An explosion of energy deafened the ears, hurling him meters back into a jagged rock that tore his side. Blood ran, and the cold sap tried to seep into his wound, but he gathered his fury, wiping blood from his lips. His white hair glowed so intensely it lit the dark cave, elemental marks across his body intertwining; fire coursed through his right veins, water flared in his left shoulder—a precarious balance never achieved before.
He surged at the guardian, placing both hands on the bony chest armor. The Sacred Steam from the clash of fire and water within him exploded, penetrating the guardian's armor, shredding its dark innards. The minor emperor screamed, tearing the sky, his body shattering into shards of black glass scattered by the wind.
Sultan dropped to his knees, gasping, body trembling from energy overuse. Khalid approached, violet eyes tracking his brother's wound with predatory curiosity before shaking his head sharply.
"Are you okay, Sultan?" Khalid's voice carried a strange rasp. Sultan looked into his brother's eyes, seeing a reflection of a growing abomination, and gripped his hand firmly. "We'll reach it, Khalid… I'll cleanse this darkness from your soul, even if it costs all my fire."
Laila stood at the cave's mouth, eyes on the mountain peak looming close. "We've crossed the threshold, but the great emperors know we are here. The feeling of being watched grows heavier, and the wind tells me that beyond this cave lies not a human land, but another displaced dimension above our world."
Inside the cave, transformed into a corridor of crystals reflecting their twisted memories, Sultan saw Mecca burning, a falcon and Sheikh Abdulrahman impaled on castle walls, ravens pecking at their eyes. He shut his eyes, pressing onward with a heavy heart, aware that the emperors sought to break his will before the decisive confrontation.
At the end, the view opened onto the Valley of Stone Thrones—massive seats carved from volcanic rock, each occupied by a giant skeleton wearing an icy crown. In the center, an empty throne awaited whoever held the Heart and the Key. Khalid felt a magnetic pull, walking mechanically toward it, the Crystal Heart in his hand glowing violet, outshining Sultan's hair.
"Khalid! Stop!" Laila cried, trying to halt him with her wind, but he pushed it aside as if it were nothing. His face became a mask of shadows, eyes hollow voids swallowing light.
"This is my place, Sultan," he whispered, voice multiplying into thousands of echoes. "Here we began, and here we end. The prophecy was never to save the world, but to choose the new heir."
Sultan drew his sword, tears burning his blue eyes. "You will not touch that throne, Khalid. I will shatter the prophecy and this mountain before letting you become one of them."
He stood between his brother and the empty throne, white hair ablaze with desperate light, while the skeletons on the other thrones opened their red eyes, heralding the start of the Grand Trial.
The Northern continent was now consuming its heroes, reshaping them in molds of agony. Sultan fought not just for Mecca, but for the remnants of humanity within Khalid, while the emperors watched with sadistic delight, awaiting the moment when light and shadow collided to rend the world anew.