The decline from the Screaming Spire was a automatic routine. The wind continued to howl. It was merely an external sound now filtered through the perpetual murmuring chorus within his mind. The Echoes remained present; they formed a steady drone of ancient enchantments, a mental ringing. He caught the remnant of a love charm when a gust grazed his face sensed the tang of an old wardsmith's craft, on the elusive air. He was a man journeying across a realm, with ghosts now serving as his fellow travelers.
He steered clear of areas. The mental clamor of a hamlet—the ordinary wants, the unfiltered feelings—was a discord compared to the sophisticated mystical symphony, within his mind. He remained on the isolated spots tracing the ridge of the Alps westward toward the imposing solitary peak of the Weisshorn.
The world possessed a dual nature. His bodily vision observed the splendor of glacier and summit. His Echo-amplified awareness detected the damage: spots where existence had been mended after a rupture ley lines throbbing with weak unhealthy energy, the dull throbbing gashes in the land where mighty forces had collided long ago. The planet was more, than a stone; it was a living being, suffering from old untreated wounds.
He discovered the side chamber on the night following the Drunengalm seeking refuge in a shallow cave network to avoid a piercing sleet storm. It wasn't the Hölloch. This was a drier crevice yet the atmosphere felt off. Not the musty stone scent,. Something crisp and electric similar, to the air after lightning has struck. Aged metal. Ozone.
His foot stumbled over something than rock. He dropped to his knees and, in the dim self-generated light he now employed sparingly—a silver gleam, not golden—he noticed it.
Bones. Not just a jumbled skeleton,. An organized layout. A human skeleton, displayed with geometric accuracy. The long bones created a shape. The ribs spread out like a fan. The skull was positioned in the middle topped with a helmet. The helmet wasn't corroded through but covered in a red coating its nasal guard crooked, the metal marked as if corroded by a harsh acid.
This was no accidental death. This was a message. A map of bone.
Alexander knelt down his breath misting in the atmosphere. The Echoes inside him shifted, not as sounds. With a distinct icy vibration. They identified the design. It was a binding symbol. A muting loop, etched not with chalk or blood. Embedded in the structure of the deceased. Someone had perished here to forge a void a small sphere of lifeless magic, within the vibrant stone.
His gaze fixed on the wall beyond the exhibit. Carved into the stone not by any instrument but, by a fingernail repeatedly until the furrows were deep was one solitary word:
SOLL
It held no significance for him. A title? A location? An order?
Then the Echoes offered a context. It was not a recollection. An emotion. A charm of binding a call, for quiet its concluding syllable a stifled breath. Soll was not a term. It was a piece of an incantation the final act this unfortunate spirit attempted to carve before the stillness they desired consumed them completely.
He extended his hand not to make contact with the bones but to sense the space hovering over the sigil. It was lifeless.. Cold nor vacant but void. A minute flawless glimpse of the Blue Ring's might. Within this emblem there existed no Echoes. The relentless chorus inside his mind… ceased. For the time, after drinking from the Chalice he felt absolute undiluted quiet.
It was bliss. It was terror.
The comfort was immediate and deep. The burden of enchantments the strain of ages of magical longing vanished. He felt buoyant, purified, solitary.. Within that solitude a fresh dread emerged. This was the promise of the Weisshorn, on a level. This quiet. This flawless clinical tranquility. He regarded the bones not as a caution of peril. As proof of allure. This seeker longed for quietness intensely that they attempted to fashion their own ultimately becoming an enduring element of it.
He retracted his hand. The Echoes surged forward more a flood of mental clamor that caused him to choke. The enchantments of love the maledictions, the dreams—they were torment following the silence yet they were also vitality. A chaotic excruciating magnificent clamour.
His gaze settled on the helmet. It belonged to a design, from ages past. Possibly a knight-errant.. Maybe a primitive Messenger. Had they also embarked on this journey? Had they climbed the Weisshorn sensed the Ring's pull. Then retreated here seeking to mimic its influence in a futile desperate bid to attain tranquility?
"What did you observe?" Alexander murmured to the skull.
The skeletons provided no response. The emblem's quietude was complete.
He exited the room disregarding the sleet. The meeting had pierced his determination. The Trinity was no longer a vague objective. It had become a process leading to a rational conclusion. The Blade revealed truth. The Chalice revealed consequence. The Ring would reveal the outcome: the cessation of noise the cessation of conflict the cessation of all things.
His steps towards the Weisshorn were slower now, heavy with a dread that was entirely his own. He was no longer walking towards a relic. He was walking towards a decision he now feared he understood all too well. The bones had not warned him of a monster on the mountain. They had shown him the monster he might become, sitting in perfect, silent contemplation atop a world he had saved into stillness.