-Tan'thalon, western quarter-
Tan'thalon's western quarter breathed in slow, heavy rhythms. Carts creaked, boots scraped, voices murmured low beneath the shadow of the arc wall. Work never stopped here—it simply dulled itself into routine. Warehouses lined the stone like barnacles, and among them, the Lazulli depot crouched against the colossal curve of the wall, its iron-banded doors dwarfing everything around it.
And yet, something was off. The laborers moved—but too slowly. Watched—but too carefully. Serenya noticed. She approached without ceremony, four captains at her back, their armor plain, unmarked. No banners. No colors. Just steel and discipline. The crowd parted as they passed, whispers trailing in their wake, but no alarm rose. To the untrained eye, it was nothing more than an inspection. That was the point.
"Keep formation," Serenya said quietly, not breaking stride. "No blades unless I draw first. We're here to count stones. Nothing more."
Her captains acknowledged with silence. They stopped at the depot doors. For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Then a heavyset foreman hurried forward, wiping sweat from his brow despite the morning chill. His bow was shallow—too quick, too eager.
"Commander Kael, honored," he said, words tumbling over themselves. "What brings the Iron Vanguard to this humble storehouse?"
Serenya didn't soften. "Council ordered reinforcement of the arc wall. Lazulli is the blood that keeps it standing." Her gaze flicked past him, already measuring, already weighing. "We inspect the veins. Open your books."
The foreman hesitated. Just a fraction too long. Serenya saw it land. Felt it settle. He gestured sharply to a clerk, who scurried off with nervous energy. Too nervous. Too fast. Serenya's eyes hardened, her voice lowering—not louder, but sharper.
"Delay is a poor answer," she said. "Have you something to hide, foreman?"
The effect was immediate.
"N-no, Commander—just—records, they're scattered. Shipments don't always arrive in order—"
A ledger hit wood with a dull crack. The scarred captain stepped forward, placing it on a crate as though it had always belonged there. The foreman's color drained. Serenya opened it. And there it was. Numbers didn't lie—but they did try to hide. Inflated shipments. False destinations. Missing stock, cleanly erased except for the gaps they left behind. Serenya flipped a page, then another, her expression tightening by degrees.
"Varros," she said without looking up. "Count crates."
The scarred captain moved instantly.
"Elira. Kareem. Question the workers."
Two more split off, already scanning faces, reading tension.
"Daren," Serenya continued, finally lifting her gaze. "Seal the exits. No one leaves."
Steel shifted. Boots moved. The depot tightened like a drawn wire.
Serenya turned back to the foreman. "Fifty crates of Lazulli crystals," she said, tapping the ledger. "Reported to the south quarter." A pause. "The south quarter has merchants," she went on. "That is an awful lot of stone for coin counters." She stepped closer. "Where did they go?"
The foreman swallowed. Hard. "I… I only follow orders. Contracts come sealed—always the same mark. I never saw the men who collected them."
Serenya leaned in, close enough that her voice barely carried beyond him.
"Whose hand?"
For a moment, he said nothing. Then—
"The Wardens'," he whispered. "Their seal. I swear it."
Silence fell. Not gradual. Not uncertain. Sharp. Clean. Even the laborers stilled. Serenya straightened slowly, something cold and burning flickering behind her eyes. Not surprise. Not doubt. Recognition. She turned to her captains.
"Seize the ledgers," she said. "Mark every seal." Her voice didn't rise—but it carried. "Do not touch the workers. This rot runs higher than them."
Varros was already stacking crates. Elira and Kareem shifted from questions to quiet observation, marking faces, noting reactions. Daren stood at the exits like a wall carved into a man.
"We take the proof," Serenya finished. "And the boss decides what mask the Wardens wear now."
A chorus of silent agreement. She turned back to the foreman one last time.
"You live another day because you spoke," she said, voice low, precise. "If you lied—" A faint pause. "Not even Ba'ham will find the pieces I leave behind."
She didn't wait for an answer. She turned, cloak shifting with the motion, and strode out. Her captains followed, carts now laden with ledgers, sealed documents, fragments of something much larger. Behind them, the whispers returned. But they were different now. Sharper. Uneasy. The first crack in something long buried. They walked in silence until the depot fell out of earshot. Then Serenya slowed, just enough to draw alongside one of her captains.
"Elira." The blonde woman tilted her head slightly, attentive. "If the Wardens are behind this," Serenya said, eyes forward, "they won't hide behind paper alone."
Elira's gaze sharpened. "Recruitment," she said.
Serenya gave a small nod. "Stretch your eyes and ears," she replied. "Find where they're pulling from." A brief pause. "Before they realize we've started pulling back."
Elira didn't answer. She didn't need to.
-The desert, Western Road-
In the desert, the skirmish was still in full swing. Between blows, Talia saw how the Diviner was dividing her focus between the skirmish and something else. On more than one occasion she had parried or shielded her from a blow that would have hit.
"Get a hold of yourself!" she shouted over the screeching of iron on iron "What is with you?"
The Diviner did not respond right away. Her staff swept low over the battlefield, knocking a few raiders over.
"Something is coming…" The Diviner's voice was but a whisper.
Then she saw it.
At first, Talia thought it was only smoke. But the horizon darkened quickly, the wind rising in a low, growling howl. A haze thickened, swallowing the far ridges. Sand whipped at her face, stinging her eyes.
"Storm!" a soldier cried. "Sandstorm!"
The battlefield dissolved into chaos. Men coughed and cursed, the enemy scattering in half-seen blurs, valuing their lives over loot they made a run for it. Horses shrieked as the wind howled, tearing at banners and cloaks. It was Stonefang that kept them from storming off into the desert. His behavior revealed he had experience in the desert. Using his size, and sometimes his thick fur as protection, he kept the horses together. A desert was no place for a horse to wander about. He already knew the Diviner wanted him to get the horses out of this alive. Switching from predator to herder, he set about guiding them.
The Diviner switched her focus completely to the sandstorm now. In a series of moves, Talia recognised some from her encounter in the alley, she motioned the sand to follow. With the staff in hand, Talia thought it almost looked like a dance. She saw what she was doing though. Through her movements, the sand obeyed and formed a large sphere around them. She used the sand to shield them from the sand. She ended with planting her staff in the earth and stretching her arms as far as she could. The runes in the staff flared violently as the storm's fury broke against the shield, grains of sand sparking like fireflies where they struck the barrier.
But Talia could see the strain immediately. The Diviner's jaw was set, tendons in her hands visible from tension. Her body trembled with each lash of the storm. The runes pulsed erratically, as though the staff too resisted the desert's rage, or felt the strain on the Diviner.
"You can't hold this," Talia shouted over the roar.
The Diviner's blind eyes turned toward her, her face pale with the effort. "I'll hold this as long as I have to. As long as you're still standing."
The words landed like a blow. Talia finally dismounted from her mechanical mount and took a step forward, one hand tightening on her sword, the other on her shield.
"Don't you dare throw yourself away for me—"
A wave surged through the barrier. The Diviner sank to one knee, teeth bared, sand battering against her. Even as her strength faltered, she spread the shield wider, catching soldiers stumbling in the gale, pulling them into their protective bubble with her power.
The storm had already been raging for over an hour, but the Diviner held on, sacrificing herself to hold them together. Talia's chest ached in a way she couldn't name. She had seen soldiers fall, seen comrades bleed, but this was different. This was her. This was her tearing herself to shreds to protect them.
"Diviner!" she barked, kneeling beside her, raising her shield to take some of the storm's sting.
"You don't have to do this alone. I'm not letting you!"
She tried using her light magic to enforce the barrier. But even though she had improved by leaps, she still wasn't ready for something on this scale.
The Diviner's lips curled in a faint, pained smile. "Finally… you see me."
The storm roared louder, but for Talia, the battlefield had gone silent.
The world shrieked around them — a storm of knives in the air, endless, merciless. It had been going on for hours. The Diviner's barrier shuddered, streaks of lightning arcing across it from friction, but then… it steadied. The howling softened, just enough to make the soldiers believe they might survive it. Shapes of men clung to one another within the circle of sand, their faces streaked with grit, their bodies trembling.
And there she was, standing in the middle of it all. Kneeling. Pale. Her shoulders bowed under invisible weight. The Diviner breathed in ragged gasps, sweat and dust streaking her skin. Her blind eyes were open, unblinking, fixed on nothing and everything.
Talia stood beside her, shield still raised, watching the tremor in the woman's hand as she clutched her staff. This was no invincible sorceress holding back the desert. This was someone breaking herself just to keep others safe.
For a fleeting moment, Talia forgot her anger, her rivalry, her defenses. All she saw was the quiet, brutal cost of the Diviner's strength. And it burned in her chest like guilt.
The storm eased further, a strange silence falling. Men dared to breathe.
Someone muttered, "It's passing."
Talia turned, about to steady the Diviner's shoulder—
The world howled again. Louder. Harder. The wall of sand slammed back with twice the fury, shredding the barrier like cloth. The runes in the staff screamed with a piercing note, fractures spiderwebbing across the length of it. The Diviner held back with all her might, trying to hold the barrier up. But it shredded, piece by piece.
She cried out, the sound torn from her throat, as the barrier collapsed inward. The full force of the sandstorm crashed down. Soldiers staggered, raising shields in an attempt to keep themselves safe.
And the Diviner fell, crumpling forward, her staff slipping from her grip.
Talia didn't think. She lunged, catching the woman before she hit the stones. The storm battered against her armor, clawed at her eyes and throat, but she braced herself, planting her feet, raising her shield to cover them both.
"Diviner!" she shouted, voice raw.
No response. Just the faint, uneven breath against her collar.
For the first time since she'd known her, Talia felt panic — sharp, suffocating. This wasn't some untouchable, infuriating rival standing on her own. This was someone broken, someone who had chosen to shatter herself rather than let Talia fall.
And now it was on her.
With a grunt, Talia hauled the Diviner close, shield braced against the screaming wind.
"I've got you," she whispered fiercely, words swallowed by the storm.
"You're not dying here. Not for me."
Her eyes burned, but whether from sand or something deeper, she didn't care. All that mattered was holding the line — her line — until the storm relented.
-Tan'thalon, noble district-
Tan'thalon slept easy behind its walls. The storm in the desert was a distant rumor at best—an inconvenience swallowed by stone and distance. That was what the Arc Wall was for. To keep danger far enough away that it stopped mattering. Most believed it. Those who didn't… chose not to think too hard about it. Far behind that towering shield, in the noble wing of his estate, Eldarion stood alone.His private chamber was a shrine to himself as much as to any god. Martial trophies lined the walls—blades dulled by victory, banners taken and never returned. Between them, carefully placed, were icons of Kaelor, the god of protection. Gold and steel. Faith and force. A champion. A saint. Or so the room insisted. Eldarion stood before a polished bronze mirror, stripped to the waist. His frame was powerful, honed through discipline and pride. Not a scar marked his skin. Not one. Untouched. Untested. He studied himself, a slow, satisfied smile forming. For a moment, it held. Then it broke. His fists slammed against the table.
"She was mine," he muttered, voice tight, fraying at the edges. "Promised. Bound by her parents' word."
His reflection stared back, unchanged.
"And yet every glance—every spark in her eyes—she gives to that blind witch."
His jaw tightened.
"Talia belongs with me. Not… not her."
Silence pressed in.
"How can she choose her over me?"
His hand snapped up, gesturing sharply at the mirror—at himself—before crashing down again. Bronze goblets rattled, one tipping, wine spilling across the table in a dark red streak. And then— A voice. Soft. Close. Too close.
She doubts you. Eldarion stilled. The council doubts you.
The whisper coiled through the air, slick and intimate, as though it had always been there—waiting.
They would sooner kneel before a sightless charlatan than their paladin.
Eldarion's breathing deepened, uneven now. His eyes locked onto his reflection.
"No," he said, low, forcing steadiness into the word. "I am strong. The strongest."
The mirror did not argue.
"I am Tan'thalon's sword," he went on. "They only… forget."
Then remind them.
The voice sharpened, just enough to hook.
Bend their ears. Twist their wills.
His fingers curled against the table's edge.
The council is brittle. Waiting. Waiting for a hand strong enough to shape it.
Images flickered behind his eyes—seats of power, heads bowed, voices silenced.
With Lazulli in your grasp… with the Wardens at your back…
His grip tightened.
None could oppose you.
Names followed, like stones dropped into still water.
Not Maranth. Not Veyra. Not the Diviner.
At that, something flared. Hot. Immediate. Ugly.
"The Diviner poisons her," Eldarion snarled, the restraint cracking. "She turns Talia against me. Hides behind May'jahan's name like it means something." His reflection seemed closer now. Sharper. "She steals what's mine," he hissed. "Makes me look—"
He stopped. The word stuck. The whisper finished it for him.
Weak.
Eldarion's breath hitched.
And weakness cannot rule.
The voice pressed in, firmer now.
Kill her light, Eldarion.
A beat.
And Talia will have no choice but to turn to you.
The words settled deep.
Then you will stand as the city's savior…
A flicker—approval, admiration, everything he wanted.
…while the blind girl lies in the dust.
Eldarion staggered back. Air caught in his lungs, sharp and thin. His gaze snapped to the mirror— and for a heartbeat, it smiled. Not him. Something else. He tore his eyes away, grabbing the nearest goblet and hurling it across the room. It shattered against the wall, the sound cutting through the suffocating quiet.
"No." His voice came rough. Strained. "Not weakness. Never weakness."
He straightened, shoulders squaring, as if posture alone could force the world back into place.
"The council will hear me," he said, louder now. Firmer. "The city will see me." A pause. "And Talia…" His jaw set. "She will be mine."
The words echoed—less certain than he wanted, but standing all the same. He drew in a breath, steadying, gathering himself piece by piece. Resolve settled over him like armor, rigid and unyielding. But the whisper didn't leave. It lingered. Curled. Patient. Outside, the first drops of rain began to fall. As if on que – and in Tan'thalon it actually was. Soft at first—then steady. A quiet hiss against the window. Like applause. Or mockery. In Tan'thalon, it was hard to tell the difference.
-The desert, Western Road-
Back in the desert, the sandstorm roared as if alive, swallowing the world in shrieking fury. Visibility dropped to nothing — soldiers vanished one by one into the churning wall of sand. Their shouts, once near, became muffled echoes, then nothing at all. It was worse than the densest fog Talia had ever witnessed. She had a nightmare like this once, but the real deal was so much worse. Wherever she had exposed skin, it felt like she was being excoriated. Sand crept into the nooks of her armor, making movement feel like wearing sandpaper. She stumbled forward, the Diviner's limp weight over her shoulder, every step an act of defiance against the storm. Her shield took the brunt, but her armor rattled, grains of sand cutting against every seam. She could barely breathe, every gasp choking her lungs with dust.
The glow of Lazulli torches, the silhouettes of comrades — all gone. It was only her now. Her and the Diviner, dragged into the storm's merciless core.
"Hold on," Talia muttered, though she knew the Diviner couldn't hear.
She shifted her weight, gripping the woman's arm tighter around her neck, ignoring the burning protest in her muscles.
"I won't let it take you."
But the storm didn't care. It hit with another furious blast, a hammer of wind and grit that tore her shield arm wide. She staggered to her knees, the Diviner slipping half out of her grasp. Panic flared. She lunged to grab her, pulling the woman back against her chest, curling over her like a shield of flesh and steel. Her thoughts raced.
I can't hold us both. Not like this. I'll—
The next gust rose, shrieking like a thousand voices. Sand crashed over them in a choking wave, and for the first time, Talia truly feared they would be buried alive.
But then—
A spark. A pulse. A trembling vibration against her chest. The Diviner's fingers twitched, brushing weakly against Talia's armor. Her lips moved, cracked and dry, words forming with difficulty but carrying power.
"Down."
Just as soon as Talia had carefully set the fragile woman on her feet, the ground beneath them trembled. The storm slammed down — and broke. A wall of stone thrust up in a jagged arc around them, a cocoon of rock and sand that took the brunt of the fury. Talia's breath caught. The sudden stillness inside the stone shell felt unreal, like they were standing in the hollowed-out lung of the storm itself. She looked down. The Diviner was awake, barely — blind eyes fluttering open, pale face strained, every muscle taut with effort.
"You—" Talia started, only to swallow the knot in her throat.
She had no words for the mix of fear, awe, and… something else clawing through her. The Diviner's head tipped against her shoulder, her body trembling but her lips curving in the faintest, defiant smile.
"Told you… not… helpless."
Then she sagged again, body limp but breathing, leaving Talia alone with the weight of her and the storm pounding just beyond their fragile stone shield.
The world outside their stone shell raged on for what felt like hours. The storm pounded and tore, every blast rattling their fragile haven as if determined to break through. Sand seeped through cracks in thin streams, pooling around their knees. Talia held on, one hand braced against the trembling wall, the other clutching the Diviner against her chest. Every time the wall shuddered, her grip tightened. Her arms burned, her legs ached, but she refused to let go. She tried not to think about how still the woman was in her arms. Tried not to think about how close she had come to losing her. Her pulse thundered in her ears, louder than the storm.
Until finally—silence.
It came suddenly, so abrupt it felt unnatural. The howling was gone, leaving only the soft hiss of settling sand. The air tasted stale, heavy with dust, but the crushing pressure lifted. Talia dared a breath. She shifted carefully, easing the Diviner's limp form against the wall, brushing grit from her pale face. The blind woman stirred faintly, lips parting with a shallow exhale. Alive.
Relief flooded Talia so sharply she nearly laughed, though it came out as a choked sound instead. She sat back hard against the wall, head tipping up toward the cracked ceiling of their earthen cage. She didn't notice it yet, but parts of their cage looked an awful lot like the walls of an old building. For the first time since the fighting began, she let herself feel it—the raw, shuddering terror that had driven her forward. Not of the storm. Not of the enemy. But of losing her. She glanced down. The Diviner's hair clung damply to her temples, her face pale but composed even in exhaustion. Somehow, even unconscious, she looked steady, untouchable—everything Talia wasn't right now.
"Damn you," Talia whispered, fingers curling into fists against her knees. "Damn you for doing this to me."
Outside, the storm had passed. But inside, in the quiet of their fragile cocoon, a different storm raged on.
-Tan'thalon, council hall-
The council chamber stood stripped of ceremony. No banners. No colors. No witnesses. Only stone, shadow, and consequence. Serenya entered at the head of her captains, their footsteps echoing across the polished floor. The great chamber felt larger without its usual audience—emptier, but heavier for it. At its center, a long table sat beneath the cold glow of magitech lanterns. Evidence waited there. Ledgers, thick and damning. Crates of Lazulli crystals, faintly shimmering. And the seal. Blackened metal. Heavy. Silent. Watching.
Only three figures stood beyond it. Maranth. Still as carved stone. Veyra. Hands folded, eyes sharp. And Shyra—her form flickering in soft blue light, a perfect projection, untouched by the room yet seeing all of it.
Serenya came to a halt before them, helm tucked beneath her arm, armor pristine. Her captains fanned out behind her, silent as steel. She didn't wait.
"Councilors," she began, voice firm, cutting clean through the chamber. "The truth is plain."
Her hand gestured toward the table.
"Shipments diverted under false seals. Lazulli dust flowing where the wall cannot drink it. Workers dealt only with masked men bearing this mark." Her gaze hardened. "Whoever wears the Wardens' face has hollowed out the veins of this city." A beat. "And if it continues, Tan'thalon's bulwark will fail before the desert ever strikes it."
Silence followed. Not uncertain. Measured.
Shyra moved first—or rather, her image did. She turned toward the evidence, light shifting across her features. When she spoke, her voice carried that same calm, harmonic undertone—precise, untouched by panic.
"The records confirm Commander Kael's claims," she said. "The numbers align."
A flicker of light passed through the ledgers as if she were reading them in real time.
"If these diversions persist, the Arc Wall loses three percent integrity per year." A pause. "Collapse within a generation. Sooner, if entropy accelerates."
The words settled like dust. Maranth rose. Slowly. Deliberately. Everything about him was measured—even the silence before he spoke.
"The Silent Wardens," he said at last, "are the city's hidden hand." His gaze passed over the seal, then to Serenya. "They were forged for shadows. For knives in places sunlight cannot reach." A slight tightening at the corner of his eyes. "To accuse them openly… is to tell the people their shield rots from within." He let that hang. "Panic would follow. Riots." A beat. "Perhaps revolt."
Veyra didn't rise. She didn't need to. Her presence carried without movement. Fingers laced, posture composed, eyes glinting with something colder than fear.
"And yet silence carries its own cost," she said.
Her gaze flicked to the Lazulli crates. "To ignore this is to let the rot spread unchecked." Her voice remained calm—but there was weight beneath it. "If the Wardens are false—or worse, turned—then every night they walk, every whisper they breathe, carries Ba'ham's corruption deeper into Tan'thalon."
That was enough. Serenya stepped forward, restraint snapping into purpose.
"Then we cut them out," she said, her voice sharpening into command. "Call them what they are. Traitors." Her hand struck the table lightly—not a blow, but a claim. "Expose them. Hunt them. Purge the shadows until none remain."
Maranth's gaze hardened. Steel behind calm.
"And what then?" he asked.
No anger. Just inevitability.
"Every noble with an enemy cries 'Warden.' Every merchant screams theft. Every alley fills with suspicion." He held her stare. "The city tears itself apart—while the desert waits to swallow what's left."
Serenya pushed the ledgers forward. Harder this time.
"We cannot stop the bleeding by covering the wound," she said. "If the Wardens are compromised, the city must know who holds the knife."
Veyra raised a hand. Small. Decisive. Silence fell again.
"Not yet," she said.
Her tone was controlled—flat in a way that made it sharper.
"The Wardens are shadows." Her eyes flicked to the seal. "But shadows have masters." A pause. "Until we know who commands this corruption, a purge is wasted steel." She looked back to Serenya. "Your findings are vital, Commander. But they are the first cut. Not the end."
Serenya's jaw tightened. The tension in her shoulders spoke louder than any interruption.
"So I chase whispers," she said, voice controlled—but only just. "While the city bleeds."
Veyra didn't flinch.
"I'll have you draw the shadows into the light," she replied. "Find their masters. Prove—beyond doubt—who wears the Wardens' face." Her voice lowered slightly. "When we strike, it must be once." A beat. "Unbreakable." Then— "Until then… silence."
The word lingered. Heavy. Maranth exhaled, slow and quiet, as though weighing even that.
"Then it is decided," he said. "The investigation continues. In secret." His gaze fixed on Serenya. "No public accusation. No proclamations." A final pause. "You and your Vanguard will continue your work… but the city must not see your true quarry."
The question didn't need asking. But he asked it anyway.
"Do you understand?"
Serenya's fists clenched at her sides. For a fraction of a moment, it looked like she might refuse. Like steel might meet stone in more than words. Then discipline won. It always did. She bowed—sharp, precise.
"I understand."
Her voice was iron. But not quiet.
"Shadows grow bolder when they believe themselves unseen," she added. "Wait too long, and we may find Tan'thalon already belongs to them."
No one answered. She turned. A small motion—barely noticeable—but she gave Elira the slightest nod. Enough. Then she strode from the chamber, her captains falling in behind her without hesitation. The sound of their departure echoed longer than it should have.
And then— Silence. The council remained. Unmoving. Uncertain. On the table, the blackened seal caught the lantern light. A dull gleam. Like an accusation. Unspoken. Unanswered.
-The Desert, location unknown-
The quiet pressed in heavy, broken only by the faint shift of settling sand. Talia and the Diviner's little shelter felt like a tomb now—dim, claustrophobic, filled with the scratch of grit in every breath. Talia sat cross-legged, pretending to watch the non-existent entrance, but her gaze kept slipping sideways. The Diviner looked so impossibly still, her face pale beneath its dust, her lips parted with shallow breaths. She had burned through herself to shield them both—and now lay slumped, fragile in a way Talia had never seen. Her breathing was steady but shallow, her chest rising beneath the torn fabric of her tunic. Dust clung to her lashes. A streak of dried blood curved across her jaw, turning her ethereal calm into something too human, too fragile.
Talia shifted her position so she sat with her knees drawn up, arms draped loosely across them. She should have been thinking of the others, of how to dig their way out, of whether the skirmish had survived the storm at all. But her eyes kept straying back. Talia swallowed hard, fingers tightening around her knees. Something inside her twisted. This woman—blind, reckless, infuriating—had stood between her and death again and again. And now, lying there, she looked so breakable it made Talia's chest ache. She let her gaze linger, drinking in the details she would never admit to noticing—the elegant line of her throat, the faint scar that cut across her collarbone, the stubborn peace etched into her features. Her hand twitched. For one dangerous second, she almost reached out.
"Staring again?"
The words were soft, almost amused. Talia froze. Her head snapped up—and found sightless eyes cracked open, turned in her direction. A faint, knowing smile ghosted across the Diviner's lips. Heat rushed into Talia's face. She jerked her gaze away, fumbling for her usual steel.
"I was just—making sure you were alive."
"Mm." The Diviner's smile deepened, quiet but sharp. "Of course you were."
Talia bristled, a retort on her tongue—but the sound of her own pulse drowned it out. The silence pressed in. Sand muffled the world beyond, leaving only the pulse of their breathing inside the half-buried shelter. Talia risked another glance. The Diviner hadn't shifted, though her lips still carried that faint smile—as though she knew more than she should. Talia's throat tightened. She hated the way her chest ached, hated how unsteady she felt around someone who should only ever be a rival. A challenge. Not… this.
"Why do you do it?" she asked suddenly, sharper than she intended. "Why push yourself until you break?"
The Diviner's head turned fractionally, dust falling from her braid. Her voice was quiet, steady, almost disarming in its simplicity.
"Because some things are worth breaking for."
Talia's chest clenched.
"That's reckless. You could have died."
"And you would have lived."
The answer came without hesitation. No arrogance. No sting. Just a calm certainty that left Talia's pulse hammering. She wanted to snap back, to say something cutting—but her words stuck. What came out instead was softer, closer to the truth she'd been fighting:
"I don't want you throwing yourself away for me."
The Diviner's expression shifted—gentle surprise, then something almost fragile beneath it.
"You care."
Talia froze, heat rushing to her face. She should deny it, scoff, say something sharp. But the storm inside her was louder than the one that had been raging outside, and all she managed was a quiet, unguarded whisper:
"Maybe I do."
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The Diviner's hand twitched faintly, as though she meant to reach across the sand between them, but she stilled it. Her voice trembled on the edge of something unspoken.
"I… don't know what to do with that," she admitted, almost to herself. "I was never taught how."
The words cracked something wide open between them. Talia swallowed hard, her armor of defiance in pieces. And before the silence could turn unbearable, she pulled her knees up, curling in on herself, shutting the moment down.
"Then don't. Just… sleep. We'll deal with it later."
But even as she turned away, her heart wouldn't stop pounding, loud as a war drum in the quiet.
The world was quieter now that the storm's fury had burned itself out, leaving only a heavy silence and the endless hiss of sand still shifting across dunes. The half-buried shelter creaked as it settled, dust falling in soft curtains around them. Talia stirred first. Her body ached, her throat dry as bone, but her mind kept circling back to the words neither of them could take back. Maybe I do.
Her pulse stuttered when she glanced over. The Diviner sat cross-legged, her hand splayed against the stones, her face pale and drained. A faint glow still flickered faintly around her fingertips—residual magic holding back the weight of sand that would have buried them alive.
"You're still holding it?" Talia's voice cracked.
The Diviner exhaled slowly. "If I let go now, it will collapse."
Talia pushed upright, ignoring the way her head spun.
"Then stop before you kill yourself."
Sunbleached brown hair shifted as the Diviner tilted her head toward her, blind eyes steady and unreadable.
"And if I do… what happens to you?"
Talia clenched her fists. "I'll dig us out."
"You'd suffocate before you reached the surface."
Frustration roared through her, but underneath it—fear. Not of death. Of watching the Diviner choose death. Again.
"Then we'll both dig," Talia snapped, and without waiting for permission, she slammed her palms against the stone beside the Diviner's hand. The spot chosen deliberately for the wall had the markings of an old building. She only hoped it would lead them somewhere safer. The faint shimmer of magic flared, burning against her skin, but she didn't flinch.
The Diviner's breath caught. "You'll burn yourself."
"Good," Talia hissed. "Then you'll stop trying to do everything alone."
For the first time, the Diviner faltered. The mask of calm cracked, a flicker of raw vulnerability in her face. Slowly—hesitantly—she shifted her magic outward, letting Talia's stubborn strength push against the flow. The air thickened with heat, the glow of magic bleeding across both their arms. For a heartbeat, they were locked together—defiance and desperation braided into one unsteady force. The stone groaned, a section of their sand-packed prison finally splitting. A rush of cool night air hissed through the crack, scattering grains of sand across their faces. Both of them collapsed back, gasping, half-laughing in disbelief. The Diviner's voice was softer than the night wind:
"You'd really break yourself for me?"
Talia turned her head sharply away, refusing to meet the blind but piercing gaze.
"Don't twist this. I just don't like watching you be an idiot."
But her voice lacked venom, and they both knew it.
The crack of open air was a mercy, but it wasn't freedom. Not yet. The storm had shifted the dunes into strange new shapes, sealing the ruins around them. They had air now, but not a way out. Talia leaned back against the stone, sweat cooling on her skin, her heart still hammering from what they'd just done together. She forced herself to stare at the shifting shadows instead of the Diviner's profile, lit faintly by the magic's dying glow. Every silence between them felt louder now.
"You're quiet," the Diviner said, her tone almost teasing—but gentler than it had ever been.
Talia swallowed. "Trying to think of a way out."
A small smile tugged at the corner of the Diviner's mouth. "Lies."
Talia bristled. "Excuse me?"
"You're avoiding the question you haven't asked."
Talia's jaw tightened. "And what question is that?"
The Diviner tilted her head, those blind eyes unsettling in their steadiness.
"Why I would burn myself to protect you."
Heat rushed to Talia's cheeks before she could stop it. She forced a scoff, biting down hard on her own reaction.
"I don't care why. You just shouldn't."
The Diviner's smile faded, replaced with something softer, more fragile.
"Maybe I don't know how not to."
That pierced through Talia's armor in a way no blade had. She turned her head sharply, staring into the cracked stone, refusing to let the sting in her chest show on her face. Minutes dragged. The magic-light dimmed to nothing, leaving them in shadows broken only by the soft light Talia managed to emit from her gauntlets. The air smelled of dust and salt, their breathing the only sound. Finally, Talia spoke, her voice low and rough:
"We're not out yet. Save your words. You'll need your strength."
The Diviner didn't argue this time. She only shifted closer, just enough that their shoulders brushed as she settled into the stone beside her. And though Talia sat rigid as a drawn blade, she didn't move away.
After a long silence, she released some tension through a loud sigh. There was one thing that had been burning in her mind for a long time now.
"How do you stay so self assured in all of this? You can't even see…" She looked at those sightless eyes "Doesn't that unnerve you?".
The Diviner let a soft chuckle escape her lips.
"If you want to know how I intercept all those strikes without seeing them, just ask."
Talia immediately walled herself back up, though heat rose up to her cheeks.
"That's not.. No… I didn't…." She fumbled for words, then swallowed her nerves "Yes…I want to know..".
The corner of the Diviner's mouth curled up in her lopsided smirk. Her playful eyes were a stark contrast to her tired and drained expression.
"You still didn't ask."
Talia huffed. "Gods! You're still infuriating. You know that?".
The Diviner snickered, relishing these teasing moments.
"I know. But that's still not the question you wanted to ask."
"Fine" Talia bristled, running a hand through her hair in frustration "How do you fight without seeing?".
"Finally" The Diviner's smile softened to a gentle touch now "I can feel where everyone is around me. Through the ground, the air.. I sense their presence. I sense your presence."
"So I was right?" Talia smiled victorious "You did feel those attacks on the rooftop".
The Diviner nodded, slower than usual, her form still drained from the storm.
"The stones tell me how someone moves and where they are. The air tells me how tall they are, how muscular. It's like I feel it strike me, before it strikes me. If that makes sense?".
Talia blinked, and shrugged. "Not really. Do you mean like it hits my armor before it hits me?"
"Something like that. It's why I prefer to walk barefoot. I can feel you… Them better." This time the Diviner's cheeks flushed with heat, momentarily restoring color, at her little slip up "I'm not really sure how it all works. It just came naturally to me as I grew up".
"You really can't see anything?"
"Not a thing. Never have.."
Talia didn't know what to say to that. She couldn't imagine not being able to see. Instead she just sat there with the Diviner, enjoying the little moment for the time being.
The silence stretched, broken only by the faint rasp of their breathing in the dust-thick air. Talia shifted against the wall, restless. She wasn't good at waiting—never had been.
"We can't just sit here," she muttered. "We don't even know where we are."
The Diviner splayed her hand flat on the stone, reading the gentle vibrations. Focusing for a moment. Talia saw that she was using her magic again.
"Don't.."
"I know where we are…" The Diviner said, her voice but a whisper "The ruins of Bakh'Emeth.."
Talia thought for a moment. She had heard the name before, but when realisation hit her, her eyes grew wide.
"The village that went mad?".
The Diviner nodded slowly, torn by the fact that she knew it was their only way out. In her current state she couldn't get them both out safely another way.
"I fear that we might actually find the proof the council wants us to find here."
Talia squeezed the bridge of her nose.
"The storm might have sealed the rest of the ruin. If we wait too long, we'll be buried alive."
The Diviner tilted her head, one hand pressing flat against the stone at her side, fingertips trailing across it like reading a secret. "The sands haven't settled fully yet. Listen."
Talia tried, straining her ears. All she heard was silence.
"I don't hear anything," she admitted, defensive.
The Diviner's lips quirked faintly.
"That's because you only use your ears. Feel." She nudged Talia's gauntleted hand toward the floor, the gesture unexpectedly intimate. "The stone carries it. The city's heartbeat under all this weight."
For a moment, against her will, Talia closed her eyes. And damn it—she did feel something. A tremor, subtle as breath, somewhere far beyond them.
"…There."
The Diviner smiled.
"Good. That's the way the air moves. That's our way out."
They rose together, stiff and sore, and began widening the crack they had made in the stone until it was just wide enough for them to get through. Talia took the lead at first, sword clearing debris, but soon realized she needed the Diviner's instincts. The blind woman guided with a certainty Talia couldn't match, sensing shifts and weaknesses in the stone where Talia saw only darkness. This was the first time she noticed the clicking sound she made with her tongue. Talia couldn't see it in the darkness, but the Diviner moved her head towards where she heard the sound return. Unnerved by the darkness, Talia made a makeshift torch out of her gauntlet by channeling her light magic to it. She was still learning a lot about being a paladin, so the glow only reached a couple of feet. In the dim light, she could see the contours of the diagonal beams that made a ceiling. Though the room was huge. Much too big to be a house.
"This isn't a house" She thought aloud.
"No, I can feel its contours. This was a temple" The Diviner said flatly, continuing her way, guiding the pair of them. More than once, the ceiling groaned above them, sand hissing down like a warning. Instinctively, they pressed back-to-back, breath shallow, waiting for the ruin to hold.
"Still think you don't need me?" the Diviner murmured in the dark.
Talia shot her a glare, even if the other woman couldn't see it.
"You'll get your thanks when we're out of here."
The Diviner's chuckle was low, warm, and frustratingly knowing. Eventually they found a staircase down, which made Talia question.
"Are you sure you want to be going further down.. Shouldn't we be going up?"
"The storm has changed the landscape above, my dear Wildfire.." The Diviner began, only to be interrupted by the Paladin.
"Don't call me that!'
She ignored it and continued "I told you already. Feel. The air isn't coming from above. It is coming from below."
She halted at a staircase, hesitant. Talia smelled an opportunity.
"What's wrong. The great all seeing one can't see what's coming?"
The Diviner only nodded.
"That's exactly it" she brushed the railing with her hand "It's wood. I can't feel if it is intact, steps are missing.. We could fall."
She turned to Talia, who now saw a fragile, exhausted woman. A shell of the proud and confident Elementalist she knew. That hit her harder than the storm had.
"Stop using your magic. I'll lead." She said self assuredly, and took the Diviner's hand, ignoring the flush of heat in both their cheeks.
When she took the first step on the ancient wood, it decided to remind her of the fact that she was still clad in full plate armor. Groaning and creaking under foot, the wood settled and still supported her weight. With a gentleness she didn't know she had, Talia carefully guided the blind woman along, showing her where the railing was. Whenever a step objected too much, she held a hand back to stop the Diviner behind her.
They suddenly came to a full stop.
"Don't tell me.." the Diviner sighed behind her "Some steps are missing".
"No.. I don't know yet." Talia replied hushed "I thought I saw something."
They decided to continue down further. But as they did, a pair of big, gleaming eyes – as dark as the setting they were in – looked down on them from one of the beams supporting the roof. Talia didn't see them and the Diviner was too exhausted to notice. She needed all her focus to not stumble and send them both tumbling down. When the steps seemed to hold them alright, Talia grew more confident. A mistake, as the step she had just landed her foot on, gave way. Startled and flailing, she grasped the railing. Flustered, she regained her composure, as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn't almost taken the rest of the staircase at an unwanted accelerated pace. She straightened her back like the proud paladin she was.
"Ahem.. Sorry" she muttered "It's so dark in here I can barely see a thing".
Looking back, she stared straight into the Diviner's deadpan expression.
"Oh no.." the Diviner feigned a shocked gasp "What a nightmare!".
Even exhausted she would never miss the opportunity for a good roast. Realising her screw up, Talia's cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
"Sorry.. Sometimes I forget that you can't see."
The Diviner tilted her head, the faintest smile ghosting across her lips. "And sometimes I forget that you still believe seeing is knowing."
"You always talk like that," Talia muttered, stepping carefully onto the next board. "Do you practice sounding mysterious or does it just happen?"
"It happens when the world won't stop whispering," the Diviner murmured. "Places like this are never silent. Every wall remembers."
"Remembers what?"
"The people who built it. The ones who prayed here. The ones who died here."
Died. The word hung between them like dust in Talia's light. For a moment, Talia thought she heard something—like a sigh carried through the wood. She shook her head, tightening her grip on the Diviner's hand.
"Don't do that," Talia said. "Don't make it sound like the walls are listening."
"They are," came the quiet reply. "They've been waiting."
A shiver crept down Talia's spine. She opened her mouth to speak—but the next step didn't answer her weight. It cracked, groaned, then snapped, dropping out from under her. She let out a startled cry as her makeshift paladin torch flared wildly, briefly illuminating everything. Talia thought she saw bones below, and the shadow of what appeared to be a demon. She didn't have much time to think though. The Diviner lunged instinctively, catching Talia's arm just as her foot slipped into empty air.
"Got you!" the Diviner hissed, bracing herself against the railing.
Her muscles were already burning from fatigue, and now with the added weight of a fully armored Paladin.
"Don't let go!"
Her gauntlet light flickered, throwing long shadows across the stairwell. Beneath them, something moved—a slow, rippling shift, like fabric dragged across stone. The faint breathing she'd thought she imagined before now came from below.
"Diviner—"
"I feel it," she whispered. "It's not the wind."
The railing groaned. The boards beneath them moaned again, this time deeper, like something waking.
"We have to jump," the Diviner said suddenly.
"Jump?!"
"Trust me."
Before Talia could argue, the wood gave way completely. Together they fell through a cloud of splinters and dust. For a heartbeat there was nothing but weightlessness and the rush of air. It came to an abrupt stop when they hit the stone below. Talia felt the impact first. Even despite her armor, she still felt like being hit by one of Tan'thalon's automatons. She groaned, pushing herself upright, the glow from her gauntlet flickering weakly.
"Diviner?" she called out.
No answer came—only the faint drip of water, the echo of settling debris… and then, somewhere in the dark, the sound of something dragging itself closer.
"Diviner?"
The name echoed into the dark, swallowed before it could come back. Talia pushed herself to her knees, wincing. Her shoulder screamed in protest—she must've hit it first—but nothing felt broken. Too bad it was the same shoulder that had been struck by a chain when she first came to Tan'thalon. The faint glow from her gauntlet painted the stone floor in a sickly amber, revealing a wide chamber beneath the staircase. The air was damp and heavy, thick with the scent of earth and decay. It was like no living soul had been down here in ages.
"Diviner!" she tried again, louder.
A low groan answered her, not from the shadows but from her left. Relief flooded her chest as she crawled toward it. The Diviner lay half-buried in debris, her robe torn, blood trickling from a shallow cut on her forehead. Talia knelt beside her, shaking dust from her hair. She couldn't help but steal a few glances, gliding over the Diviner's features. Though she was mostly checking for injuries, she also lingered more than a few times and noticed from the tears in her robe that the Diviner was tanned all over. Aside from a few scrapes and scratches on her bronze skin she didn't seem to be in too bad a shape.
"Hey—hey, stay with me," she said softly, brushing grit from the woman's face.
The Diviner stirred, grimacing.
"I'm not dead. You sound disappointed."
Talia let out a shaky laugh.
"Hardly. You still owe me directions out of this tomb."
"Mm. Always so romantic."
But before Talia could muster a retort, the sound came again—soft at first, like cloth dragging over stone. Then closer. Wet. Heavy. She froze, every instinct screaming not alone. Slowly, she turned her head toward the far wall. The light from her gauntlet trembled, and in its faint reach, she saw the surface move. No—shift. The stone itself seemed to ripple, like a curtain stirred by breath.
"Diviner," Talia whispered. "There's something here."
The blind woman didn't answer immediately. Her expression hardened, and she pressed a trembling hand to the ground.
"Yes," she murmured. "Old magic. Bound to the temple… but it's been starving."
"Starving?"
"It smells us."
The wall peeled open. Not stone, not anymore—something slick and dark sloughed down, revealing a hollow space behind it. From within, eyes blinked—dozens of them, black and wet, reflecting Talia's dim light like oil. Talia instinctively drew her sword, the steel singing in the silence. "Stay behind me!" she barked, though she wasn't sure there was a behind anymore. The ground quivered beneath her boots. The Diviner rose unsteadily, her hand finding Talia's shoulder.
"Wildfire," she breathed, the old nickname slipping free again, "you'll need that light of yours now."
"I—"
The thing moved. The sound was indescribable—like meat and stone grinding together, like a breath exhaled through teeth that shouldn't exist.
"Talia!"
The Diviner's shout broke her hesitation. The paladin drove her magic into the sword, and light erupted—not the soft amber of her gauntlet, but a sudden, blinding flare. The chamber blazed white, and for a moment she saw it—huge, ancient, and wrong. Carved from the same stone as the temple, yet alive. Its eyes vanished into the radiance, its form recoiling with a shriek that rattled the dust from the ceiling. The light flickered out almost as quickly as it had come. The darkness rushed back in, heavier now, as if the air itself had turned to ash.
"You hurt it," the Diviner whispered.
"Not enough," Talia said, gripping her sword tighter. "Tell me how to kill it."
The Diviner tilted her head toward the sound of the creature retreating—though only barely.
"You can't," she said softly. "It's not meant to die. Only to remember."
"Then what do we do?"
"Make it forget."
Before Talia could ask how, the walls groaned again. The creature's eyes flared in the dark—angrier now. And this time, they weren't alone.
The air pulsed with a low, throbbing hum—almost like a heartbeat buried in the walls. Talia held her sword out in front of her, the fading glow trembling with her grip. The eyes in the dark blinked one by one, their motion strangely deliberate, as if they were studying her.
"Diviner," she whispered again, "what is that thing?"
The blind woman's face was turned toward the creature, her unseeing eyes wide—not in fear, but in reverence.
"A Keeper," she breathed. "Or what's left of one."
"A Keeper?"
"Long ago, before the storms, before your Orders, these temples were built as vessels for memory. Every prayer, every sacrifice, every life that touched this place—recorded, bound into the stone. The Keepers were its heart. They remembered everything."
"So… this thing remembers people?"
"It remembers everything," the Diviner said softly. "Every scream, every betrayal, every plea that went unanswered. Imagine being buried with that for centuries—unable to forget, unable to sleep. Now do you see why it's angry?"
Talia stared into the black, the weight of her sword suddenly immense. The eyes shifted closer, the sound of shifting flesh and grinding stone echoing around them.
"Then how do we stop it?"
"You can't kill memory," the Diviner murmured. "But you can take it away."
"You mean erase it?"
"No," the Diviner said, her voice trembling. "You have to make it let go."
She stepped forward, her bare hand brushing the air as though feeling the currents of emotion themselves.
"It feeds on what we bring here—our fear, our grief. If we give it nothing, it starves."
"You're telling me to not feel anything while a living nightmare crawls toward us?"
The Diviner smiled faintly.
"You're a paladin. You should understand faith."
The words stung, but they also grounded her. Talia forced herself to breathe, to let the adrenaline ebb just slightly. Her light dimmed further, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat. The creature hesitated, its motion uncertain now. The sound of its dragging limbs slowed, like it was… confused.
"It doesn't know what to do," Talia whispered.
"Good," the Diviner said. "It's forgotten why it was angry."
For a moment, the chamber felt lighter. The air loosened, the walls stopped trembling. The eyes—so many of them—blinked once more, and began to fade into the stone, one by one, until only the faint shimmer of wetness remained. The chamber turned silent once more. Talia lowered her sword, her breath shaky.
"Is it gone?"
The Diviner exhaled slowly. "No. Just dreaming again."
"And when it wakes?"
"Then it will remember us."
The Diviner turned her sightless eyes toward Talia, her expression unreadable.
"And we will have to remind it what forgetting feels like."
Talia stared at her for a long moment before shaking her head.
"You know, I liked it better when you only made half sense."
The Diviner smiled—tired, but real.
"Then you're finally starting to listen."