The Third Toll

My violet vision flares.

Waves radiate outward, shaping echoes of a forgotten past, painted in the blade’s song. For a moment the ruin falls away, and I see violet ghosts leading their horses through the gatehouse tunnel; stone walls pressing close, shadows clinging like old scars. I hear their chatter, the excitement in their voices. The pulse surges on, breaching the tunnel’s exit and revealing an enormous courtyard. Crowds gather in the distance, preparing for some grand and long-awaited event.

Then it fades, swallowed by silence. The world returns to rubble and broken steel. Another pulse bursts outward, but no phantoms return. My heartbeat steadies, and Gloomsheer’s resonance softens; its pulses growing weaker, the blade recognising the lull. I loosen my grip, returning it to my side, but as I do, my violet sight vanishes, buried beneath the smothering dark and dust-laden air.

Panic seizes me. I grab the hilt with both hands and my cheek flares once more. My sight returns. My nerves settle, but my grip on the hilt stays firm. It seems I must press onward through this horror with the blade ready. I’m unsure if this is Gloomsheer’s doing, keeping me alert, or if the power demands constant contact. Either way, I keep moving toward her presence. The deeper I go, the more the truth will surface. I have no doubt this new ability will be tested before the fortress is done with me.

I reach the entrance to the courtyard and another violet pulse rolls out. It washes over the stone, revealing intricate patterns etched into the floor. The image is obscured by fallen masonry and powdered wood. I move carefully into the courtyard, watching every angle for the threats that may lie in wait.

But I am alone; for now.

The courtyard unfolds beneath the mountain’s throat, enclosed by towering stone walls and a ceiling lost in darkness. The air is still; too still, as if time itself has gone dormant here. Broken flagstones cover the ground in jagged pieces, each slab etched with patterns that speak of old empires. The original design is almost visible beneath the rubble: spirals, runes, and flowing symbols that once formed a single great mosaic.

Collapsed archways line the edges, their keystones cracked and half-buried beneath piles of shale. The remnants of wooden platforms and guard posts cling to the walls, rotted down to splinters by centuries of damp. Tattered banners hang stiff and lifeless from rusted iron brackets, their faded insignia almost erased by time.

A dry fountain sits at the centre; no water has flowed through its carved channels in ages. The basin is choked with fallen stone and brittle shards of metal. Magnificent statues stand now as shattered silhouettes; warriors and kings broken at the waist, their toppled torsos lying among heaps of gravel and bone.

The ceiling above is held aloft by pillars carved in the shape of ancient heroes, their faces eroded and hollow-eyed. Pieces of their broken forms litter the courtyard floor like the remnants of a fallen pantheon.

Weapons and shields lie scattered in the dust, rusted into nothing more than fragile shapes. Some are embedded in the stone floor, as if driven there by unimaginable force. The remains of market stalls lie in heaps of blackened timber, twisted metal, and bone; abandoned long before the fortress above fell.

And all around the courtyard, the shadows press inward like an audience frozen in silent witness. A chill breath moves through the cavern in slow waves, whispering of old battles and bold hopes that died here.

Out of the stillness, a bell rings from above. A thunderous sound that the heavy air seems to lock into rhythm with. The vibration quivers through my skin, and Gloomsheer begins to thrum in answer, its radiance coursing through every nerve, tracking its way into my mind.

The bell tolls again. This time the blade pulses in a strange new pattern, as if responding to an ancient summons. Then, for a breath, Gloomsheer falls silent. My cheek flares; pain returning like an inferno, searing beneath my flesh. I crumple to my knees, choking my grip around the hilt, unwilling to release it, unwilling to lose my sight for even a second.

The bell tolls a third and final time.

Flame erupts from the rune. Violet fire sweeps across the courtyard, engulfing the ruins in its glow. The ghosts return; but now they are silent. A vast crowd surrounds me, all facing inward. They stare, mouths wide and eyes fixed on me in disbelief.

The last wisps of violet fire drift from the rune, and the pain vanishes in an instant. Gone as though it was never there. I watch the embers dance through the air, trailing across the courtyard and illuminating more and more faces as they go; each one struck with shock.

Then a voice answers from the silence; low and steady, cutting through the crowd’s disbelief.

“Welcome, fledgling hero.”

I whirl toward the sound.

An old man stands before me. His beard hangs long and heavy, braided with cords of silver thread. Deep creases line his face like weathered stone, and yet his eyes burn with a sharp, ageless clarity. His expression is not shocked like the others. He expected this; perhaps he has waited for it.

His robes are tattered but regal, woven with faded runes that shimmer faintly beneath the violet glow. He stands tall despite the centuries that weigh on him, leaning on a carved staff crowned with splintered crystal. Dust swirls around his feet, but he remains unmoving, untouched by the ruin that claims the rest of this place.

His expression softens into relief. He pauses, releasing a long breath as though a burden has finally lifted. Then he smiles.

“I have been waiting for you, Vaelor.

I am Kelthis Magnartis and I have seen your fate.”