The newly revealed passage sloped downward, the walls narrowing with each step. A faint hum pulsed from the stone itself, like the beating of a distant heart. Sylas led the way, his hand brushing the walls, feeling the thrum of residual power—ancient, restrained, and watching.
Alira stayed close, eyes alert, blade in hand. "This place doesn't feel like the rest of the Vault," she murmured. "It feels alive."
At the bottom of the slope, the corridor opened into a circular chamber. Unlike the polished libraries above, this room was raw and unfinished. Cracks webbed the stone like veins. At its center stood a monolith, obsidian-black and etched with the same sigil that had hovered above the orb.
The shard in Sylas's satchel flared again, more violently this time. He grabbed it instinctively—it burned like ice against his palm.
Then the monolith responded.
A ring of glyphs ignited around its base, lighting the room with an eerie blue glow. The symbols spun slowly, and from deep within the stone, a voice emerged—faint at first, but growing in clarity.
"Sylas Drevin, Blood of Tharam. You seek the truth of the Pact. You carry memory. You carry risk."
Sylas stiffened. "How do you know my name?"
The voice didn't respond. Instead, a section of the monolith shifted—cracking open like a door. Inside was a small pedestal, and on it sat a worn journal, bound in grey leather, etched with a single word in old script:
Aureon.
Sylas reached for it, but Alira placed a hand on his arm. "Wait. That's no ordinary text."
He nodded and opened it carefully.
The journal's pages were fragile, but the ink had not faded. The writing was tight and elegant—detailing rituals, doctrines, and observations from someone who had witnessed the rise of the Pact firsthand.
As Sylas flipped through, one passage stood out:
"The Vault was not built to protect knowledge. It was built to trap it. To lock away truths deemed too dangerous to survive memory."
Another page, later in the journal, described the Root—Malrik's prize.
"The Root was not created. It was found. It predates the Pact. Predates even Tharam. It links memory and magic, blood and fate. To control it is to rewrite truth."
Alira leaned over his shoulder, reading. "So that's what Malrik wanted. Not power. Control over the narrative itself."
Sylas closed the book. "He didn't just betray the Pact. He tried to become the author of history."
Suddenly, a grinding noise echoed behind them. The passage they'd entered through had sealed shut. The chamber dimmed.
A second voice, different from the first, emerged—lower, rasping, closer.
"You've seen too much."
A figure stepped from the shadows at the chamber's edge—neither man nor ghost, cloaked in robes woven from flickering memory itself. His face was a shifting mask of past faces—hundreds, flickering like candlelight.
Alira stepped forward. "Who are you?"
"I am the Curator. I protect what was never meant to be found."
He raised a hand, and the glyphs flared violently. The journal in Sylas's hands vibrated, pulling toward the monolith as if drawn by force.
But Sylas gripped it tighter. "You can't stop the truth. The silence has lasted long enough."
The Curator's many faces scowled at once. "And do you think you can bear it? Truth is heavier than history."
Then the air warped, and the Curator lunged.
Alira met him halfway, blades clashing with spectral energy. Sylas backed toward the monolith, the shard pulsing madly in his grip. He slammed it against the journal.
Light exploded outward.
The chamber screamed.
And the Vault began to shake.