The stairs beneath the Obsidian Dais spiraled like a helix carved by forgotten hands. Duncan's boots echoed on the stone steps, their rhythm swallowed by the heavy silence that draped the air like damp wool. His torch cast flickering shadows against the descending walls—each etched with faded runes, animalistic carvings, and fractured reliefs of celestial battles that predated even the Dominion's oldest annals.
Ashryn followed closely behind, halberd gripped tight. "I don't like how the walls feel like they're… breathing."
Gorran muttered, "They're made of spineshard. Mineral grown in proximity to ley-root clusters. I've only ever seen samples, never a full structure."
Alra brought up the rear, crossbow loaded, eyes sharp. "Then keep your facts ready, Gorran. We may need to know what kills spineshard if it comes alive."
They descended for what felt like an eternity. At last, the stairwell opened into a massive cavern—far larger than what should've existed beneath the ruins. The air was thick with humidity, and a faint thrum pulsed through the stone.
The chamber stretched into darkness, but in the center stood a monolithic root structure—blackened, pulsing faintly with blue light. Tendrils sprawled like veins across the cavern floor, reaching toward glowing pools of mana-rich water. At its base lay a platform with iron rings and old leather bindings, clearly once used for anchoring bodies or machines.
Duncan approached cautiously. "This… isn't natural."
Gorran knelt beside one of the tendrils. "It's a Black Root. A relic from the First Vaults. These were grown—engineered—to tap directly into ley-veins beneath the planet's crust. The Dominion used them for warforging."
Ashryn's brows furrowed. "Then why is it still alive?"
Alra answered grimly. "Because someone's been feeding it."
They moved deeper into the cavern. The further they walked, the clearer it became—the Black Root had become a hive. Bones littered the edges of its sprawl. Crates marked with recent trade guild seals lay broken and empty. Weapon racks, fresh oil, and worn campfire pits suggested occupation. But no bodies.
Not yet.
Duncan stopped beside a half-buried Dominion helmet, stained with something green and oily. "The Path was here."
Ashryn knelt and ran her fingers through the black moss lining the stone. "Still warm."
Then the walls began to hum.
A low resonance—barely perceptible at first—grew into a tremble. The pools of leywater rippled.
Alra spun. "Movement!"
Something slithered out of the shadows—no, many things.
Shapes emerged from the far reaches of the cavern—humanoid in size, but twisted in form. Blackened bone jutting from limbs. Glowing eyes. Skin etched with veins of ley corruption. Some bore weapons—Dominion-issue blades and spears, now grafted to their arms with flesh fused to steel.
"Twisted!" Gorran hissed.
Duncan drew his sword, his voice a cold command. "Form up!"
The creatures charged—feral but organized. A swarm of them, each more grotesque than the last.
Ashryn met the first with a clean decapitation, her halberd singing through the air. Alra fired bolt after bolt, dropping three before she had to reload. Gorran activated a leyshock rune on his gauntlet, slamming it into the ground—sending a burst of kinetic force that staggered the front line.
Duncan danced through them with cold efficiency. His blade sang, guided not just by training but instinct—deeper now, as if the Black Root's presence had awakened something in him. Each parry, each strike was deliberate. The Twisted bled strange ichor, shrieking in voices that sounded both human and not.
Then, from the shadows, a larger form emerged.
It stood at least ten feet tall—once a Dominion officer, now a mockery of command. Its chest plate bore the scorched remnants of a Marshal's sigil. But its limbs had mutated, one arm replaced entirely by a curved, bone-like scythe. Its face was stretched into a permanent snarl, eyes burning with ley corruption.
Ashryn's eyes widened. "That's not just a Twisted. That's a Warden."
The Warden charged, slamming into Duncan and knocking him back into a pillar. The stone cracked from the impact. Pain lanced through his ribs.
Alra loosed a bolt into its throat—it barely flinched.
Gorran yelled, "The root's feeding it! We have to cut it off!"
Ashryn leapt onto the creature's back, driving her blade deep into the base of its neck. It roared and spun, throwing her across the cavern.
Duncan forced himself upright. Blood ran down his temple. He focused—not on his pain, but the rhythm.
The pulse.
The root's thrum wasn't random. It was a sequence.
He remembered the glyphs. The mural. The orb.
Everything was connected by ley rhythm.
He closed his eyes.
And heard it—the counter-frequency. The anti-resonance.
His hand burned. He looked down and saw the old Dominion brand on his wrist glowing faintly.
An echo of the Deep Oath.
He ran, dodging the Warden, and slammed his hand against the nearest Black Root tendril. His will surged into it—not to destroy, but to disrupt. He sang the counter-frequency.
The root spasmed.
The Warden shrieked—its body pulsed erratically, veins popping.
Ashryn recovered and charged again, this time aiming for the exposed leyvein along its spine.
With a roar, she drove her halberd deep—and the creature exploded in a mist of black ichor and light.
Silence fell.
The other Twisted collapsed as if their strings had been cut.
Duncan pulled his hand back, panting.
The root was dimming. Shrinking, almost.
Gorran walked up, eyes wide. "What… did you do?"
"I just listened."
Ashryn nodded grimly. "Then keep listening. Because something tells me this was just a fragment. A seed. The real root might be deeper."
Alra raised her crossbow, scanning the chamber. "If the Path awakened this, there's more coming. And the next one won't be as disorganized."
Duncan looked at the ceiling. Far above, he could barely make out the mural he had seen before—now clearer.
The Black Sun loomed larger than ever.
"This war," he said quietly, "didn't end. It was paused. Buried."
And now, it had begun again.