Night fell over the Kael'Zyth desert like a thick, silent shroud. The heat dissipated, but the air did not become lighter—it seemed to carry the expectation of something hidden, as if the desert itself was holding its breath. Arien advanced with slow, cautious steps, following the stone formations indicated by Khron, now visible under the intermittent glow of faint white lights that appeared and vanished among the blocks of reddish rock.
Each light seemed to ignite on its own, as if reacting to his approach. The ground beneath his feet was not the same as the loose sand dunes: here, the black sand, once fine and loose, had become thick and compact, as if it held the weight of time within itself. Arien's footsteps sank slightly, each imprint deeper than expected, as if the earth remembered him.
The path snaked between the monoliths, and at times he had the strange feeling that the stones were closer than before—as if they had subtly shifted when he wasn't looking. There was a presence there, ancient and motionless, watching without eyes, whispering without sound. The sensation was not hostile, but neither was it welcoming. It was judgment.
Further ahead, the path narrowed between two stones that almost touched above his head. Passing through the gap, a slight shiver ran down his body. Like crossing a threshold. And he knew that, from that point on, everything would change. His body moved forward, but his mind began to feel the weight of memories that were not only his.
There, where the night was densest, Arien's steps sank not only into the sand but also into memory.
Silence was absolute. No creature moved. No natural sound accompanied him. Only he and the invisible echoes of the desert.
Passing through a narrow opening between two broken stone columns, Arien emerged into a nearly perfect circular clearing, as if it had been hand-carved in times immemorial. The ground was firmer and smoother, covered by a thin layer of golden dust that seemed to shimmer under the faint starlight. All around, circular pillars stood in silence, worn by time, some leaning, others cracked, but all marked with faded runes that spiraled across their surfaces like ancient scars.
At the very center of the clearing rested a six-sided stone block, like an altar buried halfway into the earth. Its surface was dark and polished, different from the surrounding stones, as if it had never suffered the passage of time. Carved in low relief, a spiral occupied the top face of the rock, shining faintly, with an almost imperceptible motion—like the breath of a sleeping being. The stone pulsed in the moonlight, as if waiting for something—or someone.
He knelt beside the block. His hand hesitated for a moment. Then, he pressed his fingers to the stone and placed his palm on the spiral. Instantly, the ground trembled beneath his feet.
The spiral on the block's surface glowed intensely, and a deep sound echoed below Arien's feet. The dunes around him shuddered and, as if sucked by a silent force, began to collapse in slow whirlpools, revealing beneath the sand a circle of stone hidden for centuries.
At its center, spiral stone steps opened, descending into an abyss shrouded in shadow and mist. The air rising from below was thick, hot, carrying the scent of ancient minerals and something more—something that recalled restrained fire, on the verge of being unleashed.
Arien looked into the opening, as if his name had been called from within. The desert's silence had changed. Now, it was as if the whole world was holding its breath, waiting for him to descend.
Arien did not hesitate. He went down.
The tunnel walls were made of living stone, pulsing with muffled heat, as if something below still breathed. The air grew denser with every step. Each stair was accompanied by faint whispers, confusing words that vanished before he could understand.
The path was not only physical. It was like crossing a line between worlds—between what he remembered and what he feared to forget.
At the end of the staircase, he found a narrow, winding corridor, as if it had been carved by the claws of something immense and patient. The curved, irregular walls resembled the ribcage of a sleeping creature, forming an almost organic arch around him. They were covered with grooves and natural furrows that seemed to pulse under the faint light of the crystal in his pouch. The ceiling sagged low in places, with long stalactites dripping dense moisture in a rhythmic beat, contrasting with the suffocating heat emanating from the ground.
The air was saturated with minerals and a metallic scent that made his chest heavy. And then came the sound. Not music. Not a voice. Not wind. It was something formless—a resonance vibrating through the walls and within him, reverberating like a forgotten thought trying to return. An ancient echo, calling his name without ever speaking it.
The fragment in his pouch vibrated more strongly, radiating a silvery glow that escaped through the leather. Arien took it out carefully; the small crystal pulsed in his palm, cold to the touch but alive like a second heart. Its light spilled across the curved corridor walls, revealing spiral shapes that until then had gone unnoticed—forms that seemed to react to its glow.
Ahead, the air rippled slightly, as if space itself was bending. Responding to the presence of the crystal, a stone door carved with the same spiral pattern began to move, creaking slowly as it opened on its own, revealing a hidden chamber.
Inside was a vast circular room, where time seemed to have stopped to listen. The walls arched perfectly overhead, lined with dense rows of carvings that seemed to move beneath the crystal's gentle light. The figures carved there were not just images, but fragments of a forgotten story: entire cities suspended in the air, devoured by flames curling upward like columns of fiery serpents; men with hollow eyes kneeling before fires that gave neither light nor heat; faceless gods with outstretched hands pointing toward the void, as if demanding answers from a silent world.
On those walls were ancient marks in dark hues, as if the place had witnessed deep rituals and broken promises. Everything there exuded ancestral weight, as if every inch told a forgotten story.
Arien walked slowly, absorbing each image, each frozen gesture in the runes, until his eyes were drawn to the center of the room. That was where the densest energy gathered. As if the carvings discreetly pointed to what stood on the pedestal: a black stone basin, smooth as onyx, ornamented with intertwined spirals. The pale light of the crystal flickered on its rim, reflected in the dark water that filled its interior—a bottomless mirror, silent, waiting to be touched.
Arien drew closer. The silence of the place weighed on his shoulders.
As he looked at the water's surface, it moved. Images arose.
Mahran. The intact village. His sister running through the house's corridors. His mother with her back to him, singing as she prepared bread. A frozen instant of happiness. Then, the image distorted.
The village in ruins. No flames, yet destroyed. The houses collapsed as if eaten from within. People ran in despair, making no sound. His sister lay on the ground, eyes open and lifeless. The small bell she wore on her wrist rolled in the dust.
The mirror darkened again.
Arien collapsed to his knees. The crystal in his hand emitted a sharp, constant note, like a cord stretched beyond its limit.
A voice filled the room. It came from nowhere and everywhere at once.
Unknown Voice:
— "This is what you lost."
He spun around quickly.
A tall figure stood beside one of the columns. Cloaked in darkness, faceless, colorless. Its presence warped the light around it. It was made of the same material as the walls. As if it had sprouted from them.
Unknown Voice:
— "And what do you seek?"
Arien took a deep breath. His body still trembled, but his voice was steady:
Arien:
— "I want to know who did this. Why they did it. I want to prevent it from happening again."
The figure tilted its head slightly.
Unknown Voice:
— "Each piece carries a truth. But it also carries a price."
It raised a hand. A second mirror appeared in the air, made of frozen smoke. Within it, Arien saw a different version of himself: older, body covered in scars, eyes shining with a strange light. Beside him, the same hooded figure.
Unknown Voice:
— "This may be your path. But not every future wishes to be reached."
The image faded. The smoke mirror dissolved into particles of dust.
Arien:
— "I don't want the easy path. Nor a delivered destiny. I want the truth, even if it destroys me."
The entire room seemed to sigh. The walls vibrated with a low pulse, as if the desert whispered something just for him.
The figure stepped back and disappeared among the carvings.
Suddenly, the water mirror bubbled, as if something beneath its surface breathed. Concentric waves spread out, and from the center of the basin, a golden glow emerged, piercing the gloom like a living spring. Slowly, a small stone blade rose up, gray and smooth, marked with the spiral symbol—now incandescent, as if it had just been unearthed from the world's depths.
Arien approached with reverence. The air around him vibrated with raw energy. He extended his hand and, upon touching the hilt of the blade, felt a sudden heat rush up his arm, like a muted thunder racing through his veins. The moment he drew it from the basin, the crystal in his other hand shone intensely and fused with the blade in a flash that illuminated the entire chamber.
The echoing sound was more than noise—it was an ancestral note, deep, reverberating in the stones, the runes, and in Arien's own chest. It was as if the world recognized that gesture. The blade now pulsed, alive, with the same frequency as the fragment he had carried since Mahran. But there was something new: a vibration, a direction, a will that was no longer just his own.
The spiral on the chamber floor began to spin slowly. Then, with a deep rumble, the floor opened in three directions, revealing tunnels descending into darkness, into something deeper.
Arien stood up with the blade in hand. His breathing was heavy, sweat poured, but there was new determination in his gaze.
He stared at the three paths for a moment.
Arien:
— "If I am to discover what I've become… then I'll begin at the center."
And he took the first step into the labyrinth.
There, the echoes would find voice.
But they would no longer be mere memories.
They would be traces. Clues. Fragments of what Arien had been, and what he could become.
The corridor stretched ahead, swallowed by dense shadows that seemed to pulse with his own thoughts. And as the sound of his footsteps mingled with the stones' whispers, the silence around him was no longer empty—it was a promise, a question without an answer, awaiting one who had the courage to continue.