Vera stood on a plane of translucent nothing, suspended in a pale expanse that stretched endlessly beneath a vast, starless void. Within that void, a tapestry of thread-bound hands wove through the darkness, shifting and knotting as if alive. Their countless palms faced downward, each one an unblinking eye watching her.

  They weren’t just looking. They were studying her. Stripping her down to something smaller than flesh—something beneath thought itself.

  This was the same place she and Serel had been dragged into before when the Graven Daughter tried to reach the girl. Last time, Vera’s focus had only been getting out of here. To protect Serel. Back then, the aspects of House Emberward had helped her, but there was none of that now. She could feel it.

  She was on her own.

  But that didn’t matter. She’d cut through anything that stood in her way, even if it meant carving down the world itself.

  Stillwake thrummed in her grasp, the halberd pulsing once as if answering her resolve.

  She looked ahead. A single stone structure stood in the endless blank, squat and unadorned.

  Breakstep.

  The nothing beneath her shuddered as her foot found its own purchase and she launched. The space between her and the structure folded, and she was there in an instant. Stone cracked under her momentum as she didn’t bother holding it back. The door splintered off its hinges, and she entered.

  The cradle that had once hung from the ceiling was gone. All that remained was the door at the center of the room, its frame wrapped in gauze-like bindings and strands like umbilical cords.

  Crescent Severance.

  Stillwake swept once through the air. Dozens of thin crescent arcs rippled after it, slicing through every strand. The cords parted cleanly and vanished into the nothing below.

  Vera stepped toward the door.

  She didn’t know where Serel was. But something deep within her told her this was the way forward.

  The handle was shaped like a single curved hand. She took it, turned, and the door opened with a low, drawn-out sigh. Beyond it stretched a horizon of dusky lilac and bleeding violet.

  She stepped through.

  The world unraveled. Sound, air, and motion fell away. It felt like she’d passed beyond matter itself. She couldn’t see the thread-bound hands anymore, but she felt them. Watching. Peering into every layer of her being.

  It was a… terrifying sensation, in so many ways. An out-of-body experience that made her night terrors pale in comparison. Like being peeled open to the core of existence.

  But she didn’t shy away. She met it head-on. She let her Resonance surge through her, solidifying her presence.

  Then, everything became real again.

  The shift came suddenly and caught her off guard. The forces probing here hadn’t left. They were still there, testing.

  Warning.

  Vera looked around. She was in… the Mistvale Reaches. Outside Marrowfen. Behind her stretched a forest heavy with mist, and ahead was a black stream gliding over stones slick with moss. Stillwake was gone. In her hand was a simple spear of ashbone. Her armor was plain leather, and her arms bare. There were no sigil-scars there.

  A faint sound stirred across the stream.

  She looked up.

  A gangly shape stood there. Its limbs were too long, its skin a translucent black-green stretched tight over a wiry frame. The thing tilted its head, and two milky eyes fixed on her.

  A Fencoil Strider.

  Her grip tightened on the spear.

  The Strider’s lips peeled back, revealing rows of thin, hooked fangs. Then it lunged, its body jerking forward in twitching bursts.

  Instinct kicked in. Vera brought her spear forward—slower, heavier, less precise than it should have been. Her body lagged behind her intent.

  Mourning Step.

  An old First Seal Form she hadn’t used in her loadout for years naturally surfaced from memory. Her lead foot slid forward with a ghostly shimmer as her spear thrust toward the Strider’s temple. The point struck home, glancing off bone. The creature shrieked, staggering back out of reach, narrowly avoiding her follow-up sweep.

  It hissed, circling to flank her.

  Vera shifted her footing and kicked forward. A powerful force cracked the air in front of her heel.

  Breakstep.

  The ground blurred. She twisted mid-motion, swinging the spear as she shot backward.

  Hollow Veer.

  The Strider was mid-lunge when her spear connected, tearing across its cheek and splitting half its jaw. It cried as it collapsed into the dirt.

  Mark of Ember Flame.

  Fire spiraled up from the impact. A narrow vortex wrapped the Strider’s body, searing through its translucent skin. It tried to rise, but Vera was already on it.

  Crescent Sweep.

  Her spear came down in a clean diagonal cut, twin crescent afterimages trailing the strike. The blade split the creature’s skull open. The Strider went still.

  Vera exhaled, lowering the weapon. Her breathing was slightly uneven from just that.

  Her Resonance felt so weak.

  Then the world shifted.

  The forest vanished. She blinked, finding herself inside a dim cellar lit by pale, guttering candles. Shelves of cloudy bottles lined the walls, and wooden crates filled the corners. At the far end, something flickered in and out of the candlelight—a gaunt silhouette of smoke and bone, its limbs unraveling like frayed cloth as it hovered above the floorboards.

  A Fetter-Haunt.

  The monster released a hollow, piercing scream as it surged toward her.

  Resonance flared at Vera’s prompting as she met the shade head-on.

  Compared to the Fencoil Strider, the Fetter-Haunt put up more of a fight. It struck from every angle, shifting in and out of solidity, but Vera adjusted with every pass. After several exchanges, she was the one left standing, looking down at its fading body.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  And a gaping hole in the floorboards.

  That was what keyed her in to what was going on.

  She was being put through her past. Or Veralyth Mournvale’s past. She didn’t know what it counted as, at this point. But these were fights she’d had at some point in this world.

  This Fetter-Haunt had been the one in The Bleeding Chalice’s cellar. The one the matron told her about.

  How long ago would that have been? Fifteen years ago? Fourteen?

  It didn’t really matter to her now. What she needed to figure out was why the Graven Daughter would be doing this.

  The world shifted again.

  Now she stood on a battlefield. Smoke and ash filled the air. Around her stretched a sea of bodies—soldiers, constructs, and mercenaries locked in chaos. In the far distance, towering over the carnage, rose the Ember Citadel. Amber spires curled upward like talons toward the sky, and at its highest point burned the Ember Throne itself, wreathed in a faint orange haze.

  For a moment, Vera simply stared.

  She barely had time to think before movement caught her eye, and a massive construct of molten steel charged toward her, its frame inscribed with the sigils of the Ember Wardens. The ground shook beneath its steps.

  Vera braced. Her body was so sluggish compared to what she’d grown used to. Her Resonance was thin. Her Forms and Marks were limited. Her equipment lackluster. But even then, movement—combat—came naturally. It was part of her. She breathed it. And despite everything, a quiet, dangerous satisfaction stirred in her chest.

  The construct swung. Vera met it. Her spear carved through its forearm joint, molten fluid spraying outward. Another came at her, and then another. One fight bled into the next.

  She fought through the battlefield before the Ember Citadel, part of the Covenant of Flame’s hired ranks as just one among many. She clashed alongside others like her, each one drawn either by coin or conviction, until their forces breached the Citadel’s inner walls. She fought her way through its burning halls and faced the First Warden in the throne chamber itself, reliving a raid she’d only ever seen through a monitor before.

  She struck the killing blow.

  The First Warden fell, and the world folded once more.

  New battlefields replaced the old. More battles. More monsters. The Pale Reconciliation. The Silent Lords. The Hollow King within the Mirror Sanctum.

  She honestly didn’t know how much she fought. The scenes bled together, each one pushing her further, testing her resolve, as if daring her to eventually slip up. But she wouldn’t.

  Gradually, her power returned. Her Resonance increased. Her equipment improved. More Forms and Marks became available.

  By the time she fought the second expansion boss, she was finally starting to feel somewhat strong again. In the Vault of Thirteen Oaths, she was no longer just another fighter facing a tribulation. She was one of the few pushing back the Ashkeeper.

  Fighting the colossal entity—half-god, half-prison—filled Vera with a sense of exhilaration she had never felt before. It almost made her lose sight of her goal as she got to experience the rate of growth Veralyth Mournvale had once gone through. But she kept herself grounded.

  Even when the euphoria of the Ashkeeper’s fall threatened to sweep her away, she didn’t forget.

  The battles didn’t stop. She faced more bosses. Duels. Dragons. Cults. At one point, Stillwake was back in her hands, and it felt right.

  Finally, she approached the final boss of the third expansion. The final boss of Ashen Legacy as she’d known it.

  She stood before the Crucible of Echoes, where the Chainfather Ascendant waited. She was ready for what she suspected was the final fight of whatever gauntlet this was.

  But when the next scene arrived, she paused.

  Vera blinked. Her breath caught.

  There was no longer a weapon in her hand. No Resonance running through her veins. No flood of power humming beneath her skin.

  She stared at the monitor before her.

  She looked down at her thin hands, resting on a mouse and keyboard. On a cluttered desk littered with notebooks, scribbled-over sketches, and old soda cans.

  Then she looked up at the screen again, where Veralyth Mournvale’s model stood in front of the raid boss, surrounded by her raid group.

  For a brief moment, she wondered if it had all been a dream. Just her imagination, losing herself in a world of fantasy and power.

  But she knew it wasn’t.

  She knew what she’d lived was real.

  The people she’d met.

  Caldrin.

  Serel.

  The Graven Daughter was still testing her. Somehow, that entity wasn’t just looking at Veralyth Mournvale now, but Vera Morgans as well.

  On the screen, characters started moving as the first phase started. The Chainfather Ascendant stirred, echoing reflections of each fighter materializing.

  Vera’s hand on the mouse trembled. Muscle memory that had already started fading surged back, eager to move. But another part of her hesitated.

  She felt so weak.

  Even at her lowest, Veralyth hadn’t felt this fragile.

  On the screen, a reflection of her character looked straight at her character.

  Mark of the Stillbound Grasp.

  Vera recognized the attack on instinct as the copy raised its weapon, a gray sigil circle blooming on the ground around her character’s feet to root her in place.

  Crushing Wake.

  A wave of force rippled from the reflection’s halberd. Vera’s health bar dropped.

  And a fire lit inside her.

  Her grip tightened around the mouse. Her fingers found their rhythm on the keyboard. The reflection attacked again, and this time, Vera answered.

  Mark of Ashen Slip.

  Mark of Hollow Reach.

  Her character blinked out of reach, rolling to dodge a follow-up cleave.

  Binding Coil.

  Mark of the Stillbound Grasp.

  Mark of Hollowspike Cascade.

  Her Forms and Marks flowed in rapid succession, chaining together with practiced timing—syncing global cooldowns with the reflection’s attacks, predicting its casts and its dodges. She adjusted, repositioned, and punished. With every move, her instincts sharpened. It didn’t matter if an AI-controlled mimic had her character sheet. It could never know Veralyth Mournvale like she did.

  Not like Vera Morgans did.

  By the time the reflection hit the floor, Vera’s fingers were flowing. She joined the rest of the raid group in converging on the boss for phase two.

  Everything was as she remembered it. The second stage mechanics, the transitions, the timing. Even in this frail body, even without the intoxicating power of the actual Veralyth, losing in Ashen Legacy wasn’t something Vera did. Fighting the Chainfather Ascendant’s first form felt as natural as breathing. And even as he pulled each character into their own crucible at the start of the third phase, she adapted easily.

  She could do this in her—

  She gasped.

  A firestorm of pain tore through her body, radiating from her neck down to her spine. Her ribs clenched tight as her heart pounded like it was trying to break free. A high whine filled her ears.

  Her fingers seized up. Her body jerked together. On the screen, her character froze mid-motion.

  Instinctively, her head turned toward the nightstand.

  Her pills. If she could just—

  The pain spiked. Her muscles spasmed, and she tumbled from the chair to the floor with a choked cry. Tears welled at the corners of her eyes.

  Memories sprang up. Of blaring horns and shattering glass and groaning metal. Her body slamming into cold steel. Darkness swallowing everything. Her body refusing to move, becoming a cage.

  The fears came back. The tension that never really left. The constant dread of the next attack. The shame of barely being able to leave her apartment. The hollow weight of wondering what the point of any of it even was.

  Of being a scared woman who didn’t want to bother with reality and preferred to escape into the world of a game. Who pushed off life, responsibilities, connection, and just clung to what felt safe.

  Because Vera Morgans didn’t have the willpower or strength to do more than that.

  She looked at the nightstand as she writhed in pain, arms wrapped tightly around her torso. Then her gaze shifted to the glow of the monitor on the desk, where her character stood motionless as its HP ticked down.

  As Veralyth Mournvale, she’d won every fight. But as Vera Morgans...

  Something like this could still bring her to the floor when she least expected it.

  Her jaw clenched as she watched the health bar inch closer to zero. The world around her seemed to dull. Dark edges crept into her vision.

  Even the last reserves of strength drained from her limbs. She lay there, simply breathing, considering giving in to the pain. Just letting go. Waking up when it was over. When she’d lost.

  Her eyelids began to slip closed.

  “—ommy…”

  They snapped open.

  Amid the flood of memories, a small, radiant smile broke through the dark. The quiet anger that had driven her through all the fighting—that had almost been smothered by pain—blazed anew. And she remembered the promise she’d made the first night that she woke up as her game character.

  Whether she was Vera Morgans or Veralyth Mournvale, scared or brave, none of it mattered now.

  What mattered was that she’d sworn to protect a little girl.

  That responsibility was one she’d accepted.

  And she wasn’t going to break that promise.

  Cinders surged through Vera’s veins.

  Something cold and weighted appeared in her hand.

  Her arm rose. She swung Stillwake straight through the desk and monitor.

  And then she cut the space itself.

  Thread-bound hands showed through the tear her halberd had made, watching her from beyond the rift.

  Vera rose as her room dissolved around her, the pain burned away by the surging Resonance. She leveled Stillwake, pointing it toward the hands as they stared.

  The sigils along the halberd ignited.

  “Bring me to her,” she said. “Now.”

  Silence met her words.

  Her eyes narrowed. “If you don’t—”

  Space warped.

  The hands vanished, and through the gash she’d carved, Vera saw something far off—where color bled into endless hues of lilac and violet. A small figure sat on what looked like a simple stone bench.

  She stepped forward.

  “—Vera.”

  And froze.

  In the stillness surrounding her, she turned.

  A figure stood behind her.

  Her heart lurched in sudden confusion—then fury surged in to steady it. Her teeth clenched into a dangerous line as her gaze locked onto the last person she ever expected to see here.

  Her mother.