The journey to the outskirts of the capital led Sylas and Alira through landscapes that felt untouched by time. Ancient trees lined the roads, their twisted limbs clawing at the gray sky as if trying to whisper secrets from a forgotten age. Silence reigned, broken only by the crunch of gravel beneath their boots and the occasional caw of a crow perched high above.
They had followed Harven's cryptic advice, tracing his vague gestures and fragmented directions to the northeast—toward a place neither of them had ever seen on any map.
Alira pulled her cloak tighter against the wind. "Do you really believe the answers are here? In the middle of nowhere?"
Sylas kept his gaze forward. "Not just answers. The truth. Whatever's waiting out here, it has something to do with the fragment—and with me."
Eventually, they came to a clearing surrounded by crumbling stone pillars covered in moss and strange symbols. In the center stood a structure—small, forgotten, and cloaked in ivy. A temple. Or what remained of one.
"This must be it," Sylas murmured, stepping cautiously forward.
The air shifted the moment they crossed the boundary of the clearing. It grew heavier—dense with old power. The kind of power that pressed against your lungs, made your skin crawl, and whispered to your bones that this place was sacred, or cursed, or both.
Inside the ruin, worn murals covered the walls. They depicted battles not recorded in any history book—armored figures clashing with shadowy beasts, flames erupting from the sky, and at the center of it all, a symbol Sylas recognized: the same mark burned into the fragment he carried.
Alira approached a stone pedestal in the middle of the chamber. Upon it lay an open book, its pages miraculously preserved, despite the centuries that must have passed.
"Is this…?" she asked, brushing away dust and grime.
Sylas nodded and stepped forward, staring at the pages. The language was ancient, but something in his blood stirred—he could read it. Or rather, feel the meaning.
'One who bears the silent shard must never awaken it without purpose. For the shard is memory, will, and wrath. Bound in silence, it waits. Bound to the one who must choose.'
He blinked. "It's not just power. It's… alive."
Alira's eyes widened. "Alive?"
"Or conscious. A remnant of something once whole." Sylas closed the book gently. "And it's waiting for someone to finish what was started."
Before either could say more, a low hum filled the temple, and the symbol from the murals began to glow faintly. The air crackled with energy.
Then came the voice—deep, fragmented, like thunder echoing through stone.
"Who bears the shard?"
Sylas tensed. "I do."
"Have you come to awaken what sleeps?"
He hesitated. "No. I've come to understand it."
Silence followed. Then the glow faded, and the voice spoke once more, softer now.
"Then you must remember. For only through memory may the truth be seen."
In a flash, the room vanished.
Sylas fell into darkness—weightless, spinning through time and thought. He saw flashes: a city made of crystal, burning skies, a woman with silver eyes, and a blade carved from shadow. He felt pain, triumph, betrayal. None of it was his, yet it belonged to him.
And then, just as suddenly, he was back in the ruined temple, gasping for air.
Alira was at his side. "Sylas! Are you alright? What happened?"
He sat up slowly, his mind reeling. "I saw… a life that wasn't mine. Battles, oaths, losses. I think… I think I was seeing the memories of the original bearer."
Alira's expression grew serious. "Then it's more than just a weapon or a fragment. It's a legacy."
Sylas nodded, the weight of it settling heavily on his shoulders. "And I'm the one left to carry it forward."
They stood in silence for a moment, both understanding what that meant. The road ahead would only get darker. The secrets deeper. And the enemies more cunning.
But at least now, they knew where to begin.