The staircase felt endless, as though it stretched far deeper than any structure should. The deeper Arin and Lira went, the more the air changed—thicker, heavier, vibrating with a low hum that didn't seem to come from the walls, but from the darkness itself.
Lira brushed her hand against the stone. "These markings… they're fresh."
Arin stopped. Fresh meant someone had been here recently. Or something.
A faint pulse of violet light flickered at the bottom.
They exchanged a silent nod and moved closer.
When they reached the final step, the staircase opened into a vast chamber—circular, perfectly carved, silent except for the steady heartbeat-like echo. In the center stood a pedestal holding a crystalline shard that glowed with a faint, trembling pulse.
The shard wasn't just glowing.
It was breathing.
Lira's eyes widened. "Is that—"
"The Obsidian Vein," Arin whispered. "It has to be."
Every ancient rumor pointed to an artifact capable of bending shadows, of warping sight, of connecting the living world to the remnants of the Fallen Kings.
But nothing said it would feel alive.
As they stepped closer, the floor rippled like water under their boots. Arin froze, grabbing Lira's arm. The ripples spread outward, climbing the walls, forming shifting patterns that resembled faces—silent, distorted, watching.
Lira swallowed hard. "Arin… those shapes… they're moving."
He tightened his grip on her wrist. "Stay behind me."
The chamber dimmed, shadows stretching unnaturally long. The glowing shard brightened, as if sensing their presence. Then a low whisper brushed past Arin's ear—cold, hollow, impossible to locate.
You shouldn't have come.
He spun around. No one.
But the whisper echoed again, this time forming words that weren't spoken aloud—they were pushed directly into their minds.
Turn back.
The pedestal cracked.
A fissure split across the chamber floor. From the darkness below, a hand emerged—thin, sharp, shadow-formed—grasping the edge like something climbing out.
Lira stumbled back. "Arin—run—"
"No," he said, forcing himself forward. "If we run now, it follows."
The shadow-hand dragged itself up, forming the silhouette of a figure cloaked in shifting smoke. It didn't attack. Instead, it pointed at Arin… then at the glowing shard.
"Why is it reacting to you?" Lira whispered.
Arin stepped forward slowly, the light of the shard reflecting in his eyes.
"I think," he said, voice barely steady, "it knows who I am."
The shadow figure tilted its head, as if confirming something.
Then the shard pulsed—one hard, blinding flash.
Arin staggered.
For a moment, he wasn't in the chamber. He saw flashes of another place… a throne made of fractured glass… figures kneeling… banners of the Shadow Crest raised high… and a name whispered through the ruins—
Arin Valen.
A name not given.
A name remembered.
He fell to his knees, gasping.
Lira grabbed his shoulders. "Arin! What did you see? Talk to me!"
He looked at her… unsure if the truth would break her.
Because suddenly, he wasn't sure if he had come to uncover the past—
or if he was the past waking up again.