Dawn broke slowly, the sky painted in cold hues of grey and violet. Sylas and Alira stood at the edge of the Vale, staring down at what was once a proud city, now a sunken shadow of its former self.
Tharam Vale had not merely fallen—it had vanished. Swallowed by time, war, and the earth itself. Great stone towers jutted from the ground like broken ribs, their tops sheared off. Cracks ran through shattered bridges, and trees had sprouted in the ruins like nature's quiet reclamation.
But it was not entirely dead.
Faint trails of smoke rose from crevices. Footprints—human, recent—marked a muddy path winding into the belly of the ruins.
"Looks like someone's still home," Alira muttered.
"Or something," Sylas said, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The shard inside his satchel pulsed once, a soft rhythm like a heartbeat. It hadn't done that since the Wraithborn attack.
They descended carefully, stepping over rubble and listening for movement. Birds cried overhead, but nothing stirred within the walls—until they crossed a collapsed archway etched with a sigil.
Alira stopped. "This symbol… it's the mark of the Pact, isn't it?"
Sylas nodded. "One of the old branches. The Ardent Wing. They were said to be seekers of memory… recorders of forbidden truth."
"And now their library is buried," she said. "Or not."
She pointed down the corridor. Light flickered deep within, torchlight—too steady to be natural.
They moved forward, blades drawn, feet silent. The corridor widened into a rotunda partially collapsed, with roots winding through the ceiling. Beneath the rubble stood a figure in a dark cloak, head bowed over a book that hovered in the air.
Sylas reached for the shard, ready to act, but the figure spoke before he could.
"I wondered when you'd come."
The voice was old, layered—almost as if two voices spoke in unison.
Alira stepped forward. "We didn't come for riddles. Who are you?"
The figure turned. His face was pale, eyes glazed over with a milky film—but he was not blind. Not truly.
"I am Archivist Ryn. Once bound to the Pact. Now… something else. The shard called you, didn't it, Sylas Drevin?"
Sylas froze. "You know me?"
"I know your blood. And I know what you carry. But knowledge has a cost."
He gestured toward a stone dais at the center of the rotunda. Symbols carved into its surface glowed faintly.
"You wish to know the truth behind the Pact. Behind the Silence. Sit, and offer memory in return."
Sylas hesitated. "What do you mean?"
"You cannot take without giving. That is the balance. To remember what was lost, you must give what you cherish."
Alira touched his arm gently. "You don't have to do this."
"I do," Sylas whispered. "If we don't understand what we're up against, we'll be swallowed by it."
He stepped onto the dais. Instantly, his thoughts became noise—flashes of childhood, laughter, faces he'd long buried. The shard pulsed wildly, as if warning him.
Ryn placed a hand over the book, and a spectral thread connected it to Sylas' chest.
"Give us a memory of peace," the Archivist said.
And Sylas did.
The moment he gave it, he forgot it. He knew it had happened, but could no longer feel the warmth of it. Alira's smile twisted slightly in his mind—something missing.
Ryn gasped, the book flaring open with light. The runes on the dais shone brightly, and images spiraled around them—visions of a battle long ago, of a circle of cloaked figures chanting over the shard, of betrayal within the ranks of the Silent Pact.
And a name echoed in the chamber: Malrik.
The shard's pulse turned sharp.
"That's the name I saw in the vision at the temple," Sylas said. "Who is he?"
Ryn looked grave. "He was one of us. Until he severed the Accord. He stole something ancient—something the Pact was sworn to protect. And now he's trying to finish what he began."
"And what was that?" Alira asked.
Ryn's voice dropped. "The unraveling of memory. The death of history itself."
The chamber rumbled slightly.
"I've shown you all I can," Ryn said. "Malrik will feel the disturbance. He knows someone's searching now. If you still wish to stop him, there is only one place left where knowledge remains unbroken—the Vault of Echoes."
Alira frowned. "That place collapsed decades ago."
"It was sealed," Ryn corrected. "Not destroyed. And only those bearing the shard can open it."
Outside, a cold wind howled. The storm was approaching—not a natural one, but something darker.
As they left the chamber, Sylas stumbled slightly.
Alira caught him. "Are you alright?"
"I gave away a part of myself," he said, voice distant. "A good part."
She looked at him for a long moment, then offered a quiet smile. "Then let's make sure it was worth it."
They walked out of the ruins together, heading east toward the Vault—toward answers, and toward the man whose name now echoed in their bones.