Date: February 21, 543 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
The valley had changed. Completely. Unrecognizably.
Ulvia remembered this place as they had first seen it half a year ago — then the white sand shimmered like mother-of-pearl, the air was clear and dry, and above stretched an endless, cloudless sky that offered neither shade nor hope of shelter. Back then there was nothing here. Only them, the Herald, and death staring down at them from a height of three meters.
Now the valley was different. It had turned gray. The sand, once sparkling in the light, had dulled, become an ashen, lifeless mass that crunched underfoot like broken glass. The air grew heavy, viscous — each breath required effort, and besides the familiar scent of ozone, a new smell appeared, sharp and acrid, like rusted iron soaked in blood. The sky above the valley had changed too — it had lowered, darkened, and somewhere at its edge, where before there had been only infinite whiteness, a strange, oily murk now churned.
Something had happened here during the months they spent in the tower. Something they hadn't seen but felt with every cell of their bodies.
Ulvia walked first. Her left arm, the living vine, pulsed in rhythm with her heart, and the silver veins on it, usually so bright, now seemed dim, as if the place itself suppressed their light. Skopid worked in her legs, making each step light and economical, but even the technique that had become almost second nature over the past six months now came with difficulty. The ground seemed to resist. Or was it just her anxiety?
Datuk followed, gripping his axe more comfortably. His face, usually mocking and lively, was now stone — without a trace of a smile, without his usual bravado. In his green eyes there was no fear, but the focus of a predator sensing prey nearby, ready to pounce. The hand gripping the axe handle was white at the knuckles. From time to time he rolled his shoulders, working out stiff muscles, but his gaze never left the horizon.
Beside him, almost touching his leg, Sobra glided silently. The bear was tense — his ears flattened, the fur on his scruff bristling, and even the silver-striped coat, usually pulsing with a steady, calm light, now flickered unevenly, anxiously. He kept twitching his nose, sniffing the air, and each time his nostrils flared as if trying to catch a scent that eluded him. Sobra felt this place. And he didn't like it.
Rosh brought up the rear. His fingers were woven into the familiar pattern, and three dozen vectors hovered around him, ready to strike at any moment. But even they, so fast and sharp, now moved slower than usual — the air pressed on them, compressed them, wouldn't let them unfold. Rosh didn't look at his feet — he sensed the space ahead, every unevenness, every crack, every movement of the air. But today his senses were dulled. As if the labyrinth itself, which they had not yet seen, had already cast its shadow over them.
They crested a low hill — the last before the valley — and stopped.
Below, where once there had been a flat, table-like white plain, now rose something else. Something that could not have been created by nature.
The Labyrinth.
It was enormous — so enormous that its far edge was lost in the gray haze on the horizon. Black walls, built of rough, unhewn stone, rose three times the height of a man, and their surface did not reflect light — it absorbed it, becoming absolute, impenetrable darkness. The stone was black — not gray, not dark gray, but black as soot, as coal, as the abyss itself frozen into shape. In this white, featureless world, where everything was light, transparent, almost weightless, the black labyrinth seemed alien, unnatural, as if someone had torn a piece of night and inserted it into the very heart of day.
The labyrinth had no roof. Its walls rose upward, and between them, through narrow, winding passages, one could sense an endless, tangled network of corridors. No sound came from there. No wind, no footsteps, not even a faint rustle. Only silence — thick, oppressive, it hung over this place like a funeral shroud, like the waiting of death that had already made its choice and now simply waited for the victim to enter.
And at the entrance, at the very gates — two massive black slabs meeting at the top to form a kind of arch — stood *him*.
The Herald.
A white figure, three meters tall, with a featureless face and two swords hanging motionless at its sides. His clothing — white, flowing — almost blended with the sand, but he himself, his presence, his aura gave him away at first glance. Even from the hill, Ulvia felt him. The heavy, oppressive power that made her Vessel contract and her heart beat faster.
He stood motionless, facing the labyrinth, and seemed to be waiting. Not for them — no. He knew they were coming. He waited for something else. Perhaps a moment. Perhaps a signal. Perhaps just a command that would come from somewhere deep within the black walls.
Then he slowly turned his head.
He had no eyes. Only a smooth, white surface with no features, no hint of features. But Ulvia felt his gaze. He was looking at them. Studying. Assessing. As if trying to understand whether they had changed over the six months. Whether they had grown stronger. Or perhaps the opposite — weakened, lost what they had gained, and were now even more pathetic than last time.
It lasted only a second. Then the Herald turned and stepped into the labyrinth. His white figure, bright, almost dazzling against the black stone, vanished behind the gate slabs. And silence closed over him, swallowing even a hint of his presence.
The party froze.
Datuk was the first to break the silence. He exchanged a glance with Ulvia — short, wordless. In his eyes was what he couldn't express: "Well, shall we go?" And there was no doubt in that look.
Rosh clenched his fingers into the pattern. His vectors flared brighter, as if responding to his tension.
Sobra let out a low, guttural growl — and there was no fear in that growl. Only defiance.
"He's waiting for us in there," said Datuk, nodding toward the labyrinth.
"A tempting invitation," Rosh replied, and there was no irony in his cold, even voice.
Ulvia said nothing. She looked at the black walls, at the narrow passage between the slabs, and felt inside her, where the green leaf pulsed, a cold, calm flame kindle. Not rage. Not fear. Resolve. The same resolve that had led her through forests, through mountains, through the white wastes and the old man's tower. The resolve that would not let her stop, even when everything inside screamed that it was time to turn back.
"Let's go," she said.
She didn't wait for an answer. She simply stepped down the slope, and the others followed.
The sand underfoot was gray, and each step kicked up fine, acrid dust that settled on clothes, on faces, in lungs. The air grew denser, heavier with every meter, and the smell of metal intensified so much that it scratched at the throat. Ulvia felt the vine on her left arm tighten, as if trying to shield itself from this place. But she didn't stop.
They reached the gate. Two black slabs meeting at the top formed an arch, and beyond them opened a narrow, dark passage leading inward. No torches, no light — only darkness that seemed to breathe. To wait.
Datuk couldn't resist. He walked to the nearest wall, ran his hand over it. The stone was cold, rough, and radiated neither energy nor life. Just stone. But when Datuk, without a second thought, swung his axe and drove the blade into the black surface with all his might, there was only a dull, sickening sound — and nothing. The blade didn't even leave a scratch. The stone didn't even flinch.
Datuk struck again. Harder. With rage. His Spirit of the Berserker roared, and he put all his strength into the blow — the strength enhanced by the green leaf and Skopid, the strength that could shatter stone blocks and break the bones of Pillars. The axe crashed against the wall with a thunderous clang. Sparks flew, and the ring of metal echoed across the valley, bouncing off the black walls. But the stone remained intact. Not even a crack appeared.
"Damn," Datuk exhaled, lowering his axe. "Not a scratch."
Rosh approached the wall, released several vectors. They stabbed into the black surface but went out, leaving no trace. As if the stone had absorbed them, swallowed them, giving nothing back.
"It won't yield," he said, and for the first time in a long while, something like respect crept into his voice. "This labyrinth isn't meant to be broken."
Ulvia looked at the entrance. At the black slabs, at the narrow passage between them, at the darkness churning beyond the threshold. There was no choice. The Herald had gone in there. Their path lay in only one direction.
"Inside, it's his rules," she said. "We play by them. Or we don't play at all."
"We don't have a choice," Rosh replied. "The Herald is there. So we have to go."
Sobra nudged Datuk's shoulder — short, abrupt. In that gesture was everything: readiness, support, a promise to stay close no matter what.
Ulvia stepped forward, to the gate. Stopped at the threshold, turned around. Looked at Datuk, at Rosh, at Sobra. Their faces — calm, focused — showed no fear. Only resolve.
"Together," she said.
"Together," Datuk repeated.
She stepped into the darkness.
The black walls closed behind them, and the silence of the labyrinth took its first victim.