The light that burst from the journal and shard collided with the Curator's form, tearing through his illusion like a blade through fog. Screams echoed from the walls—not just from the Curator, but from the Vault itself, as though centuries of silence had been violently undone.
Sylas staggered backward, shielding his eyes. Alira landed beside him, her blade scorched, her breath ragged.
When the light faded, the chamber was changed.
The monolith stood cracked, a deep fracture running through its center. The glyphs at its base flickered weakly, no longer pulsing with power. The Curator lay in fragments—his body dissipating into threads of memory, curling upward like smoke. No blood. No corpse. Just silence and dust.
Alira touched the edge of the monolith. "It's breaking down. Whatever was keeping this place sealed… it's collapsing."
Sylas held the journal tightly. "We triggered something."
As if in answer, the ground shuddered again, more violently this time. A distant rumble rolled beneath their feet. One of the chamber walls split, revealing a narrow stair spiraling downward into pitch darkness.
Alira gave Sylas a look. "Up or down?"
"Up is sealed," Sylas said, already moving toward the new path. "Down is the only way forward."
They descended, the air growing colder and heavier with each step. The narrow walls widened gradually until they stepped into a vast cavern lit by bioluminescent fungi clinging to the ceiling. But it was what lay in the center that made both of them stop.
A tree.
Massive. Pale. Its roots stretched across the chamber like veins, disappearing into the stone. Its bark shimmered with veins of silver, and at its heart pulsed a single glowing core—green-gold, alive.
Alira whispered, "Is that… the Root?"
Sylas took a step closer, breath catching. "It's not just a source of power. It's living memory."
The journal pulsed faintly in his satchel. Pages turned themselves as though pulled by an unseen force. A new entry glowed:
"The Root is the memory of the world. It binds time, truth, and tale. To touch it is to remember everything… or be forgotten entirely."
Alira frowned. "So what did Malrik want to do with it?"
Sylas shook his head. "He wasn't trying to steal power. He was trying to rewrite the past. If he'd succeeded, he could have erased his betrayal… and made the Pact into something unrecognizable."
A sharp cracking sound rang from behind.
The path they had taken had vanished—collapsed in on itself.
"We're being funneled," Alira said darkly. "Something wants us here."
Then the Root began to glow brighter.
From the base of the tree, figures emerged. Shimmering echoes. Not ghosts—but memories. Dozens of them. Cloaked figures, warriors, scholars… all from different eras.
And at their head stood Malrik.
Not the corpse they'd seen in the archives.
A younger version—whole, regal, and burning with intensity.
He spoke without moving his lips.
"The truth was a burden no one wished to carry. So I rewrote it."
The echoes began to surround Sylas and Alira, not hostile—but expectant.
Sylas's hand drifted to the journal.
The Root pulsed.
A choice loomed, unspoken: to connect with the Root and unveil everything, at the cost of losing oneself in the flood of memory—or to leave now and let the silence resume.
Sylas stepped forward.
Alira grabbed his wrist. "If you go in, you might not come back."
He looked at her, a flicker of resolve in his eyes. "Then remember who I was. In case I forget."