The streets of Ashara were silent by midday. Markets stood empty, fountains trickled sluggishly, and the wind carried a cold that felt wrong, like it had come from beneath the earth rather than above. Zafira moved through the city with deliberate steps, ring hidden beneath her sleeve, senses stretched taut.
She knew the Covenant was awakening.
No one could see it—yet. Not entirely. But beneath the palace, deep in the labyrinth of forgotten tunnels and cellars, something stirred. The ash from the execution square had traveled through cracks in the stone, drifting silently, spreading memories, whispers, fragments of old magic. Every discarded rune, every lie written in ink, every hidden truth was gathering strength.
Zafira stopped at an unmarked door beneath the eastern wall. The air shimmered, and a faint hum resonated through the handle. She took a breath and pressed the ring against it.
The runes on the ring flared briefly, and the door responded—not opening, but acknowledging her. A lock turned invisibly in the air, releasing centuries of silence.
Inside, the tunnels twisted unnaturally, as if geometry itself had been rewritten. Walls expanded and contracted, stairways led to impossible angles, and shadows moved with a will of their own. The hum grew louder, almost like speech, almost like warning.
"Arman," Zafira whispered, voice trembling, "what are you hiding here?"
A shape detached itself from the darkness. Not Arman, not entirely, but something shaped by his presence—a memory given form. He looked as he had at the square, silver eyes glimmering, chains dissolving into light.
"You've carried the ring well," he said, voice echoing in the tunnels. "It calls to what sleeps below."
"The Covenant," Zafira said, almost reverently.
"Yes," he replied. "But it is not a single being. It is all that Ashara has buried. Lies, betrayals, broken promises… and yet, also faith, courage, and love. All of it waits for a choice."
She stepped deeper into the tunnels. Murmurs began to rise around her, thousands of voices layered into one, whispering in unison:
Choose. Choose. Choose.
A sudden gust of wind slammed the tunnel doors shut behind her. The light from her ring illuminated a chamber at the center—a pit carved from black stone, etched with runes older than the city. Ash floated above it, shimmering blue in the air. It was alive.
Zafira knelt beside the pit and lowered the ring into the hovering ash.
The hum exploded into a roar. Shadows from the walls coalesced into forms: kings long dead, soldiers long forgotten, citizens whose names had never been recorded. They bowed toward the ring, their whispers merging into one coherent voice:
"Will you awaken us… or let us sleep?"
Zafira's hand shook. The choice before her was unimaginable. If she awakened the Covenant fully, the city itself could remember everything—the truth of every secret, every crime, every hidden act. Ashara would never be the same. But if she let it sleep, lies would remain, and the blood spilled at dawn would have been wasted.
She looked into the shimmering ash. And there, in the center, the faint outline of Arman's face appeared—smiling.
"Time to decide," he whispered. "Your oath is the key."
Zafira drew a deep breath, the weight of history pressing down on her. Her fingers tightened around the ring. The hum of a thousand voices grew deafening, awaiting her answer.
She whispered one word:
"Awaken."
The pit of ash flared with light so bright it seemed the city itself had caught fire. Stone cracked. Shadows screamed. And the Covenant stirred fully from its slumber.
Ashara would never be silent again.