The path to the Vault led through dead lands.
Once a thriving valley, the region between Tharam Vale and the Vault had been scorched by ancient magics. Trees were blackened husks. Rivers had dried into cracked earth. No birds flew here. No insects buzzed. Even the wind seemed hesitant to cross the land.
Sylas and Alira moved quickly, wrapped in their cloaks, avoiding what remained of old roads. The shard inside Sylas's satchel had stopped pulsing. It lay dormant, as if holding its breath.
"Do you really think the Vault is still intact?" Alira asked, scanning the lifeless horizon.
"If Ryn's right, it has to be. The Pact wouldn't let that kind of knowledge die," Sylas replied, his voice low. "But if Malrik truly betrayed them, then he may have tried to erase it."
They arrived just before nightfall. A cliffside loomed in the distance—jagged, veined with glowing blue lines barely visible in the twilight. At its base, a stone arch lay half-buried, its doorway hidden by collapsed rubble.
Sylas reached into the satchel and drew the shard. Its surface shimmered faintly, then flared with a soft light as they neared the entrance.
Alira stepped beside him. "Looks like it remembers the way."
The light grew brighter, spreading across the rubble like flowing water. With a deep, echoing hum, the rocks began to shift—rolling aside as if moved by invisible hands.
A staircase spiraled downward into darkness.
"No turning back now," Sylas murmured.
They descended in silence.
The Vault was not a ruin. It had been protected. The walls were smooth stone, lined with runes that shimmered gently as they passed. The air was still and cool, filled with the scent of parchment, iron, and magic.
Room after room stretched outward from the central hall, filled with books, relics, tablets, and glowing orbs. Some of the books whispered as they passed. Others were bound in chains.
"Gods," Alira breathed. "This isn't just a library. It's a tomb of memory."
At the center of it all stood a pedestal. Upon it sat a crystal orb, dark and dormant. Above it hovered a holographic sigil—one Sylas recognized from the Archivist's rotunda.
He approached carefully.
As soon as he touched the orb, images burst into his mind.
A woman cloaked in silver stood before a council of elders. She held a fragment—just like his—raised high as her voice echoed:
"The Accord is broken. Malrik has stolen the root. If the Vault falls, history collapses with it."
Another vision followed—Malrik, standing at the edge of a burning city, holding the root of a tree made of light. He whispered something, but the sound was muted. Sylas strained to hear, but the vision dissolved.
Then a final image: the same silver-cloaked woman, sealing the orb within the Vault, her hand resting on its surface.
"Only those who have given memory may open what was locked."
Sylas staggered back.
"What did you see?" Alira asked, steadying him.
"The Accord wasn't just broken—it was torn apart. Malrik stole something called the Root. And that tree… I think it's connected to the shards. To everything."
Alira nodded slowly. "So this isn't just about knowledge. It's about controlling memory itself."
Sylas looked around at the endless halls. "And maybe rewriting it."
Suddenly, the chamber shook.
A deep sound rumbled from above—stone grinding on stone.
A voice echoed through the Vault. It wasn't human.
"You should not have come. The silence was mercy."
Alira drew her dagger. "Did you hear that?"
Sylas didn't answer. He turned toward the pedestal. The orb now pulsed softly, as if waking from a long sleep.
A path opened behind it—one that hadn't been visible before.
"We triggered something," Sylas said. "A deeper vault."
"And whatever's inside… it was meant to stay hidden."
They exchanged a glance.
Then, with weapons ready and the shard glowing brighter than ever, they stepped forward into the new passage.