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Chapter 80 – The Woundspire's Call
The Woundspire was not a place for the faint of heart.
It stood in the farthest corner of the Nexus, its silhouette black against the dying embers of a red moon. A spire of blackened obsidian, jagged and unnatural, as though the world had been carved open by a hand that refused to let go. Each time a soul passed near, the air grew heavier, as though the weight of a thousand forgotten truths pressed down from every direction.
Erevan and the rebels stood before it now.
The Codex, silent but ever-watchful, floated in his hands. Solvane's parting gift—the candle—burned dimly inside, still crackling with the whispers of a memory never meant to see light. The flame, so fragile, flickered in the wind, casting long shadows on the spire's broken surface.
Yuren was the first to break the silence. "This place is… cursed."
"Isn't it all?" Erevan replied, his voice a low rasp. His gaze never left the blackened peak of the Woundspire. "But it's the only way forward."
Serah stepped forward, her steps sure, though her face betrayed the same unease the others felt. "We've come this far. Whatever's waiting here, we have to face it."
Veyra, ever the skeptic, nodded but said nothing. Her hand rested lightly on the hilt of her blade. She had learned long ago to trust Erevan, even when the choices they faced felt like choices between madness and despair.
"I'm not sure what we're about to awaken," Erevan said, his voice distant. "But if Callen remembers… if he remembers everything, then we need him. Or we're all lost."
The others nodded, each processing the weight of what he said in their own way. They had all fought in different wars, different worlds, but here, at the Woundspire, they were about to step into a new battle—one that would demand more from them than they had ever given.
As they approached the base of the spire, the ground beneath them began to tremble. Not from an earthquake, but from the pulse of something ancient, something locked away in the deepest corners of the Tower's forgotten archives. Erevan could feel it, a thrum deep in his chest, as if the very structure of the multiverse was holding its breath.
The Woundspire was alive. And it was calling to them.
"You feel that?" Serah asked, her voice strained.
"I feel it," Erevan replied, turning to face her. "This place is a graveyard of memory. And it remembers."
They moved in silence from there, the distant hum of the spire growing louder. It wasn't just the wind anymore; it was the sound of a thousand voices, long silenced, now calling to be heard.
When they reached the spire's base, Erevan held out his hand. The candle's flame burned brighter, its violet glow reflecting in his eyes as he approached the cracked altar at the center. The Woundspire loomed above them, its surface lined with symbols that flickered, as though alive, but barely understood by the minds of those who dared to read them.
Without a word, Erevan placed the candle upon the altar, the light catching in the chasm of the spire like the first spark in a darkened room.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, the ground beneath them trembled again, and the spire's jagged walls cracked open, a cascade of blackened fragments falling to the ground. The air was thick with static, and Erevan's pulse quickened. His breath came out in shallow bursts. The moment of truth had arrived.
The flame flared.
And the Codex responded.
A wave of energy, raw and unyielding, swept across the group, sending each of them to their knees. The world seemed to shift around them, reality itself distorting as memory became the thread that held everything together. The Codex floated above them now, its pages turning by themselves, revealing the hidden paths that led to the deepest recesses of the Tower's forgotten past.
And in that moment, Erevan saw it.
Callen.
The Archivist of the Chain.
Not a figure of myth, not a name lost to time, but a man, his eyes bright with the weight of ages, standing at the heart of a vast, untold archive. The walls around him were lined with endless shelves, each filled with memories, broken dreams, and erased truths. In the center of it all, Callen sat before a massive stone tablet, his hands tracing the delicate lines of forgotten history.
He was the keeper of everything the Tower had tried to bury.
And as Erevan looked deeper, he saw that Callen's eyes weren't filled with anger or resentment. They were filled with something else. Something softer. Grief.
Erevan closed his eyes, shutting out the vision for a moment. The truth hung heavy in the air—Callen was not the enemy. Not truly.
He was a witness.
A keeper of secrets.
But he was also the key.
The flame on the altar flared again, brighter this time, and Erevan's heart thundered in his chest. The walls of the Woundspire shifted, the air growing dense with the energy of the unknown. The ground cracked open, and from the darkness, a figure emerged.
It was Callen.
He was not alone. Behind him, the shadows formed shapes, long-forgotten echoes of the Tower's past—rebels, traitors, and heroes, each one bound to the spire, each one carrying a story untold.
Callen's eyes locked with Erevan's.
"You came," Callen said, his voice low but steady. "I didn't think you would."
"We're here," Erevan replied, his voice firm. "To remember. To finish the story."
Callen stepped forward, his gaze shifting to the rebels. "And what of them? What do you hope to accomplish? To erase the Tower's history?"
"No," Erevan said, his voice steady. "We're here to reclaim it. To rewrite it."
Callen looked at Erevan for a long moment, then nodded. "Then you will need more than a flame to carry this burden. You will need the truth."
The ground trembled again, and the air grew thick with the weight of what was to come. The Woundspire had awakened, and with it, the past.
Erevan turned to his rebels. They stood firm, each one ready to face whatever came next.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
The silence that followed was not empty. It was the silence before the storm. The silence before history would once again be written.
And this time, it would be their story.
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Author's Note:
In Chapter 80, we dive deeper into the heart of the rebellion. The Woundspire, a monument to the forgotten, holds the key to the next stage in Erevan's journey. Callen, the Archivist, will reveal not only truths about the Tower's past but also the sacrifices it takes to rewrite a story.
Leave your thoughts, your questions, and your stones. Each chapter is a step further into the unknown. I can't wait to hear what you think.
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1 review = 1 bonus chapter.
Let's light the darkness.
– Dorian Blackthorn
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