Chapter Sixty-Four:

  “Frozen Flames”

  The temple doors groaned open, ice cracking along the edges as Sterling and Roland stepped inside. The frigid air swallowed them whole, colder than the Ashen Mire outside, colder than anything Roland had ever known. His breath came out in thick clouds, vanishing into the silence.

  The chamber was immense, stone pillars rose in looming succession, their surfaces slick with frost. Once, they had been carved with depictions of fire, of embers rising into the heavens, but the details had been buried beneath layers of ice. Here and there, the faintest traces of scorched black remained, echoes of the fires that had once ruled this place before it was stolen away.

  Torches lined the walls, but their flames barely quivered. What little light they gave off was swallowed by the vastness of the chamber, the darkness stretching unnaturally deep between the pillars. The silence was absolute, no dripping water, no shifting rubble, just an oppressive, stillness.

  Sterling stepped forward first, his staff tapping softly against the frozen stone. "We must uncover what has happened to the Guardian of Flame quickly, it may already be too late."

  Roland glanced at him, the blind mage's face remained composed. He moved with certainty, as if he knew the temple well, his pace unbroken as he guided Roland deeper. Roland shifted his hold on Souleater, the weapon unnervingly comfortable in his grasp. He thought back to Sterling’s words, to how he had told Roland to take it from Chris. It wasn’t the request itself that unsettled him, but the way Sterling had said it, how had he known the weapon’s name? Chris hadn’t told him, yet he spoke as if it had always known of it. The thought pressed at the edges of his mind, not yet fully formed, but refusing to fade.

  The grand chamber opened into a long hall ahead, lined with crumbling braziers that had long since lost their fire. The path forward was clear, but it led only deeper into the ice-entombed ruin, toward whatever awaited them in the heart of the temple.

  The corridor stretched ahead, its walls lined with murals once meant to depict the fire’s eternal cycle, birth, destruction, rebirth. Now, they were encased in ice, frozen moments of a history now stolen. Banners that had once hung in reverence were stiff with frost, their vibrant reds and golds dulled to ghostly impressions beneath a thick, glassy sheen.

  Roland’s boots crunched against the icy stone, but something else caught his attention. He halted, eyes narrowing at the frost-covered floor ahead. There, footprints pressed into the ice, as if someone had walked this path moments before. Not melted prints, not mere indentations, each step looked as though it had drawn the ice up from beneath, freezing the very path it had taken.

  Then, from deep within the temple, the sound of laughter rose.

  It wasn’t a cackle. It wasn’t a sneer. It was something far worse. Amused. Pleased. A sound that carried no urgency, no rush, only the certainty of something inevitable. It spread through the corridors, slipping beneath the frozen archways, crawling along the frozen stone, touching everything.

  Sterling slowed beside him, his staff tapping against the ground. His expression didn’t change, but his grip on the staff tightened. For the first time since they had entered the temple, his voice carried a tone laced with dread. "It may be as I feared. The Dark One has reached the Guardian.”

  Roland exhaled, his breath barely visible in the fading torch light. He looked ahead, deeper into the temple, where the laughter had come from.

  Whatever waited for them in the heart of the temple, already knew they were coming.

  The heavy doors rumbled as they swung open, revealing the temple’s core. Pillars coated in ice loomed like frozen sentinels, stretching high into the cavernous space. The floor was slick with frost, the air so bitterly cold that each breath felt like inhaling needles. At the far end of the chamber, above a platform of frozen stone, it waited. A throne sculpted entirely of ice, sharp, jagged, unnatural. And seated upon it, as if he had always been there, was the masked figure.

  His antlered helm cast long shadows beneath the dim glow of the temple’s scarce light. The air in the chamber held the presence of history, for this was no throne room, it was a burial ground.

  All around, embedded in ice, lay the remains of those who had once served the Guardian of Fire. Their frozen forms rested in silent reverence, their eternal vigil unbroken by time. The fire they had once devoted themselves to had long since been smothered beneath an unnatural frost.

  The moment Roland and Sterling stepped inside, laughter filled the chamber, layered and shifting, impossible to place. It echoed without a source, slipping through the walls and sinking into the floor, carrying a weight that felt both distant and personal.

  “'Bout time you got here, Roland.”

  The voice was light, almost playful, as if welcoming an old friend rather than an opponent. The helmed figure leaned back against his frozen throne, arms draped lazily over the armrests. “It’s freezing down here, ya know? Rude to keep me waiting in the cold.”

  Then, with the same unsettling ease, he turned his head toward Sterling. “Sterling! My old friend. Still blind, I see. Forgive the pun.”

  Another laugh, reverberating from every direction at once.

  Roland stiffened, his grip tightening on Souleater. Beside him, Sterling, usually composed, visibly tensed, his breath unsteady, fingers trembling around his staff as if grounding himself against something unseen.

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  The Dark One had been waiting for them.

  The figure rose from the ice-carved seat, his movements slow, deliberate. The frost beneath his boots grew as he descended the steps. He reached up, fingers pressing against the antlered mask. With a single, fluid motion, he removed it.

  For a moment Roland's eyes couldn't process what they were seeing. The face revealed was his own.

  A mirror image. No. A twisted reflection.

  But it wasn’t just the resemblance that sent ice crawling up Roland’s spine. It was the way this version of himself stood, taller, somehow more solid, with an edge to his features that made him look carved from something sharper, colder. The eyes staring back at him weren’t just familiar. They were his.

  Dark Roland exhaled, loosening his posture, head angling slightly, examining Roland with a mix of amusement and revulsion. “Finally." He said, voice low, edged with relief. “You have no idea how revolting this form is to me.”

  The words sent a fresh wave of unease through Roland. The voice wasn’t just like his, it was his.

  He smirked. “You’ve got no idea what’s going on, do you?” He spread his arms slightly, gesturing to himself. “Let’s fix that. Name’s Banner, Rendall Banner.”

  Roland didn’t hesitate. The moment Rendall’s fingers touched the hilt of his blade, Roland lunged. His own sword met its twin in a crash of steel, sparks flaring between them.

  But the impact didn’t stagger Rendall. It didn’t even push him back.

  Roland pressed forward, twisting his blade in an attempt to unbalance his opponent, but Rendall matched the movement perfectly. Like a reflection. A shadow given weight.

  Roland struck again, faster this time, a feint followed by a low sweep meant to knock Rendall off his feet. Rendall mirrored the motion in perfect sync, stepping back at the precise moment Roland did, evading the attack before countering with the same move.

  Their blades clashed, identical in power, identical in speed. No matter how Roland adjusted his technique, how quickly he adapted, Rendall was always there, already reacting. Already knowing.

  It was like fighting himself.

  No. It was fighting himself.

  A realization settled like iron in Roland’s gut. This wasn’t just an enemy who studied his techniques. Rendall didn’t need to predict his attacks. He already knew them.

  A kick to the ribs, countered before it landed. A pivot into an overhead slash, parried effortlessly. A desperate sidestep into an off-balance thrust, shut down before it could even begin.

  Rendall wasn’t reading him.

  He was him. A better him.

  Roland steadied himself, breath ragged, frustration mounting. His muscles burned, but Rendall hadn’t even broken a sweat. He just stood there, watching, entertained, simply waiting for Roland to tire himself out.

  Sterling’s voice cut through the clash of swords, calm but absolute. “You can’t beat him like this, Roland.”

  Roland barely spared him a glance, too busy dodging a strike that would have split him in two. “Yeah? I noticed!”

  Sterling didn’t move from where he stood, but his presence filled the space, unwavering. “You fight like a warrior. He fights like a reflection. Every move you make, he matches. Every attack you make, he counters before it touches him. You are bound by limits, he is not.”

  Rendall smirked. "Should I fetch a rope so your fool can hang himself, old man?"

  Roland stepped back. "Then what the hell am I supposed to do?”

  Sterling’s voice was steady. “Something he can’t mirror.”

  Roland’s eyes dropped to Rendall's weapon. A copy of Roland's original sword. Not Souleater.

  It was already charged. Five souls. Five desperate, lingering fragments, all waiting to be released.

  Roland closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. Then, without warning, he let go of everything, the rhythm, the stance, the predictability. Instead of another measured strike, he lifted Souleater and poured every ounce of his own soul into it.

  The blade ignited in an brilliant glow, sapphire light radiating from its edges, growing, alive. The chamber darkened as the sword devoured the very essence of the chamber around them.

  Rendall’s smirk vanished.

  Roland didn’t wait.

  With a single, decisive movement, he brought Souleater down in an arc that Rendall couldn’t match.

  The impact shattered the silence, and the realm.

  The chamber stood silent in the wake of the final blow.

  Rendall stood frozen, fractures splintering through his body. A gasp escaped his lips, not of pain, but of relief. His sword fell from his grasp, clattering to the ice-coated floor as he stared at Roland with something like gratitude.

  "Hah..." A bitter chuckle slipped past his lips. "Guess I don’t have to be you anymore."

  Then, he shattered.

  A billion shards of ice exploded outward, dissolving into motes of red light that drifted into the freezing air before vanishing into nothing. The burial chamber stood still once more, save for the labored breaths escaping Roland’s lips. His fingers trembled as he lowered Souleater, the sword’s unnatural glow fading as the last of its stored energy dispersed into the ether.

  It was over.

  His knees gave out, exhaustion sinking its claws into him, but he forced himself upright. The cold no longer bit as harshly. The weight of Rendall’s presence had vanished, leaving only the frozen hush of the temple. A triumphant exhale escaped him as he turned towards Sterling, a weary but satisfied smile breaking through his exhaustion.

  "We did it," he breathed. "We saved them all!"

  The pain came before the realization.

  A white-hot agony tore through his back, piercing through muscle, through bone, through heart. Roland's breath stopped, his hands twitching as his sword slipped from his fingers. He staggered forward, confusion crashing over him as the world tilted. "What?"

  His gaze dropped. A blade jutted from his chest, black steel piercing through his life.

  His mouth opened, but no words came.

  A voice, smooth, whispered at his ear. "Thanks for making this too easy."

  Sterling.

  Roland's breath trembled. Slowly, his head turned, catching a glimpse of the man who had stood beside him through this journey.

  The blindfold had slipped.

  One eye remained hidden beneath dark cloth.

  The other burned with an unholy light, a cold void that swallowed all warmth, all humanity.

  Sterling wrenched the blade free.

  Roland lurched forward, stumbling, choking, his body fracturing, dissolving into nothing. His fingers grasped uselessly at the wound. His strength, his life, his very existence unraveled before him.

  His vision blurred. Darkness surged at the edges of his sight, consuming, devouring, swallowing him whole.

  Then, his body shattered into a million blue lights.

  They scattered through the frozen tomb like dying embers.

  A figure remained standing over the remains. A different man than the one Roland had trusted. Sterling, unveiled. His blindfold, now useless, had been cast aside, revealing both of his eyes, one burning with an unholy glow, the other cold and calculating. The warmth and weariness he once feigned were gone, replaced by something almost inhuman.

  His coat, once appearing travel-worn, now draped over his form like a mantle of evil, embroidered with sigils that pulsed with a malevolent light. A faint mist curled around him, not from the cold, but from the unnatural energy that radiated from his very being. He was no mere mage. He was something far worse.

  He exhaled, watching the motes drift away before curling his fingers into a fist, as if trying to grasp Roland one last time. A smirk touched his lips.

  "Farewell."

  The chamber silence was broken by more laughter. Not Sterling's, not Rendall's, but a girls. Hex.

  "I thought you said I would get to play with him!" she whined playfully.

  Sterling took Souleater, casting his old weapon aside.

  "Worry not child, more toys have just arrived."