The red sigil pulsed faintly beneath his skin, burning like a brand only he could feel. Binyamin staggered back, chest tight, lungs heaving. The Inquisitor hovered above the fractured altar, cloak trailing ethereal blue fire, the smooth porcelain mask reflecting nothing yet radiating an aura of unreadable menace.

  “That Sigil belonged to a god whose name was erased for a reason,” the Inquisitor said, voice steady, measured. “Return it—or I will cut it from you.”

  Binyamin’s throat tightened. Fear and disbelief collided. “You’re out of your mind. I didn’t take anything!”

  Behind him, a massive surge of energy slammed into the stone, blowing debris outward in a storm of dust and jagged shards. The Inquisitor’s aura pulsed, blue flames licking the air.

  “Then die with it,” the figure said, emotionless.

  Adrenaline flared, and Binyamin ran. The skybridge stretched ahead, broken and trembling, a river of clouds yawning beneath. He leapt over cracks, skidding across fractured stone, heart hammering in rhythm with the sigil on his chest.

  The Inquisitor blinked forward in a short-range teleport, appearing closer than physics should allow. Binyamin’s pulse quickened. He could feel the sigil responding, thrumming with an unknown energy. Something inside surged.

  Without thinking, he thrust his hand forward. Crimson glyphs erupted from his palm, spiraling into the air in a violent arc. They collided with the Inquisitor’s blue flames, and the shockwave tore across the ruins, throwing dust and shattered stone in all directions.

  Binyamin staggered back, blinking in disbelief. “…I did that?”

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  A second surge burst from his palm, striking the Inquisitor again, sending him sprawling backward. The mask cracked, revealing scorched flesh beneath, while his cloak tore along the edges.

  The skybridge trembled violently, fissures spreading like lightning.

  Binyamin’s chest heaved. “Right. Cool. No time.”

  He sprinted toward the edge, red glyphs spiraling around him, guiding his leap through the void. Below, clouds churned like boiling smoke. The wind screamed past his ears, tugging at cloak and hair alike. And then — solid ground. Or at least, a lower shard.

  He crashed against the dust-smeared surface, skidding, coughing, groaning. Alive, but barely. His chest burned, heart racing, palms scorched from his own uncontrolled power.

  “Brother?”

  The voice was small, concerned. He turned. A girl stood there — twelve, dark braids cascading over a tattered robe, a staff far too large for her frame. Naela, his sister.

  “What did you do now?” she asked flatly.

  “Me? Nothing! Everything exploded on its own!” Binyamin replied, struggling upright.

  Her eyes widened at the glowing lines etched into his chest. “You have glowing lines in your chest,” she said calmly, reaching out to help him steady himself. She tended a gash along his arm with a scrap of cloth.

  “You’re always bleeding,” she whispered, voice quiet. “One day, I won’t be here to patch you up.”

  Binyamin offered a faint, ironic smile. “Then I guess I’ll have to stop doing stupid things.”

  They shared a brief silence, gazing over the burning horizon. Skyships circled high above, mechanical humming drifting down from their dark forms.

  “The Eye of Concord,” Naela said, tension rising in her voice. “They’re close.”

  Red glyphs flared faintly across Binyamin’s chest, pulsing in rhythm with some unseen heartbeat. He clenched his fists.

  “You’re waking it up,” Naela whispered.

  “…Waking what up?” Binyamin asked, unease coiling in his gut.

  “The shard. The old things. The god that never fully died,” she murmured.

  A wind swept across the ruins, carrying a voice from nowhere, layered and distant:

  “One bearer… one pyre…”

  Binyamin stared at the horizon, hands trembling, the sigil beneath his skin burning faintly. “…Whatever this thing is… it’s not done with me,” he muttered.

  “Maybe it never was,” Naela said softly, eyes shadowed with concern.