A chair sat at the far end of the table. Silent. Still. Waiting.
The chamber around Eiden dissolved into darkness, the torches extinguishing one by one as if the room itself feared what was about to stand. The marble floor beneath him dimmed, losing its shine, becoming dull and cold. Even the air felt heavier, as though the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for something ancient to awaken.
A figure rose from the chair. Slowly. Deliberately.
Its face was hidden in shadow, its posture heavy, its presence suffocating. Each step it took echoed like a heartbeat in a dead world—slow, hollow, inevitable. The sound reverberated through the chamber, bouncing off the walls like a memory that refused to fade, like a warning carved into the bones of the room.
Eiden's breath caught. The figure stepped into the faint light.
And the world stopped.
It was him. Eiden. His own face. His own eyes. His own presence. But twisted. Dimmed. Hollow.
The Black Wraith was himself.
He stood with cold, half-lit eyes—eyes that looked exhausted, ancient, and utterly done with existence. His hair hung to his neck, unkempt and lifeless. His face was smeared with dried blood, cracked like old paint on a forgotten statue. His cloak hung from him like a shadow that had lost its purpose, dragging behind him like a memory that refused to die.
His expression wasn't rage. It wasn't hatred. It wasn't madness. It was emptiness. The emptiness of a man who had lost the purpose to live. The emptiness of a warrior who had fought so long he no longer remembered why. A weapon without a wielder.
The torches flickered weakly, as if struggling to stay lit in his presence. The shadows around him seemed to bend inward, drawn to him like gravity itself was collapsing. Even the air around him felt wrong—too still, too cold, too aware.
Then, it spoke.
"Eiden."
The voice was deeper. Older. Heavier. Not his voice, but a voice he remembered. A voice from a dream. A voice that whispered in the dark.
"Chant the third invocation."
The memory hit him like a wave. The dream. The woman's voice. The blurred figures. The council room. He remembered.
The other Eiden lifted a hand—palm open, reaching. "Chant it."
His tone was calm. Too calm. The calm of someone who had already accepted death, who had lived too long and seen too much. "Let me out of this hell."
The torches dimmed further, shrinking into tiny sparks. "Free me."
The air tightened, pressing against Eiden's lungs. "I can handle Civilar for you."
Eiden's eyes widened a fraction.
"Let me take over."
The Black Wraith stepped closer, his aura dragging shadows behind him like chains. The darkness clung to him, swirling around his feet like smoke. "Let me grant you the skill you had forgotten. Let me grant you the secondary magic you forgot about."
The chamber darkened further. The gods faded into silhouettes. Morvath's voice vanished; Rah's presence disappeared. Only Eiden and the Black Wraith remained—two versions of the same soul, separated by time, fate, and blood.
The Black Wraith lowered his hand slightly, eyes half-lit with something between sorrow and hunger. "Let me out," he whispered. "Let me be you again."
The words echoed through the marble, through the air, through Eiden's bones. It felt like the room itself was repeating the words, urging him to listen.
Eiden tried to step back. He couldn't. His legs wouldn't move.
The Black Wraith stepped closer. The air grew colder. The shadows deepened. The torches flickered violently, then extinguished entirely.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Eiden felt something tug at him—not physically, but deeper. Something pulling at his consciousness, his memories, his identity. It felt like fingers digging into the edges of his soul, prying, searching, demanding.
The Black Wraith's voice echoed again, softer now, almost pleading. "Let me out."
Eiden's vision blurred. The world twisted. The chamber warped around him, stretching and bending like a reflection on rippling water. The air vibrated with a low hum, like the world was unraveling.
The Black Wraith reached out. And this time, Eiden's hand moved on its own.
Their fingertips touched.
A shock ran through him—not pain, but recognition. A memory. A thousand memories. A thousand lifetimes. A thousand sins.
The Black Wraith's eyes softened. "Let me be you again."
The world shattered.
Their consciousnesses collided. Eiden felt himself being pulled forward—or backward—or inward. He couldn't tell. His mind blurred with another mind. His thoughts tangled.
He saw flashes: A battlefield drenched in smoke. A kingdom burning. A god falling. A blade glowing with divine light. A scream that wasn't his. A laugh that was.
He saw himself—the Black Wraith—standing on a field of defeated enemies, expression empty, aura flickering like a dying star. He saw himself chanting the Third Invocation. Once. Twice. Hundreds of times.
He saw the world tremble beneath him. He saw gods flee from him. He saw the sky crack. He saw himself smile—not with joy, but with exhaustion.
He saw himself die. He saw himself reborn. He saw himself forget. He saw himself remember.
The two Eidens' bodies pulled closer, drawn by a force older than magic, older than fate. Their forms overlapped. Merged. Fused. Light burst from the point where they touched—white, blinding, divine.
Eiden felt his knees weaken. He felt his breath catch. He felt his heart pound. He felt his mind split—
Then snap back together.
He stood for a second. Silent. Still. His eyes were shut.
The chamber was quiet.
Eiden slowly opened his eyes. He saw the silent gods. And the gods saw him—not as he was, but as he had become.