The docks of the Obsidian Isles were not built for trade. There were no bollards, no cranes, no bustle of harbor masters. There was only a jagged shelf of black basalt jutting out into the churning grey water, slick with violet algae and silent as a grave.
Elian guided the Nightshade alongside the stone shelf, engaging the mag-locks to secure the hull against the relentless current. The moment the engines died, the silence of the Isles descended. It was a physical weight, pressing against the eardrums, thick and suffocating.
Vane stumbled as he stepped onto the gangplank. The psychic toll of navigating the Siren Field had drained him; his skin was ashen, his movements sluggish. He gripped the railing, his knuckles white.
Elian was there instantly. He wrapped an arm around Vane's waist, taking his weight.
"I've got you," Elian whispered.
Vane looked at him, his grey eyes hazy. "The Echoes are strong here, Elian. Keep your mind shielded. Do not listen to the whispers."
"I'm listening to you," Elian said firmly. "Move your feet, Wolf."
They stepped onto the black rock. Ahead of them, a narrow, winding staircase was carved directly into the sheer face of the cliff. It spiraled upward into the twilight mist, disappearing toward the Bone Temple that perched precariously on the summit.
The ascent was grueling. The stairs were steep and slick with moisture. With every step, the air grew thinner and colder.
"Why is it called the Temple of Echoes?" Elian asked, trying to fill the silence, trying to drown out the faint, scratching sounds he thought he heard behind him.
"Because the stone remembers," Vane rasped, leaning heavily on Elian. "Basalt is volcanic. It comes from the earth's core. It absorbs magic. Over centuries, it has absorbed so much grief, so much pain from the exiled mages, that it has begun to project it back."
As if summoned by his words, the mist ahead of them swirled.
A figure materialized on the step above them.
It was a woman. She wore the grey rags of the Soot-Wards. Her face was gaunt, her eyes hollow pits of starvation. She held out a hand that was nothing but bone and gristle.
"Mother?" Elian breathed, stopping dead.
He didn't remember his mother—she had died of the Blue Cough when he was three—but the image struck a chord of primal longing in his chest.
"Elian," the figure wept, the voice sounding like wind through dry grass. "You left us. You ate the King's bread while we starved."
Elian's heart hammered. He took a step forward, his hand reaching out. "I didn't know... I tried to help..."
"Don't," Vane's voice cut through the illusion like a blade. He grabbed Elian's shoulder, his grip surprisingly strong. "It's not her. It's your guilt. Burn it."
Elian blinked. The violet heat in his blood surged. He focused on the figure, willing the illusion to break.
The woman shrieked and dissolved into mist.
"They pick at the scabs," Vane warned, pulling Elian past the spot where the ghost had stood. "Keep climbing."
They climbed higher. The wind howled around the spire, carrying voices. Elian heard Bram crying. He heard the snap of the Inquisitor's blade killing Corin. He kept his eyes fixed on the white stone of the temple above, using Vane's heartbeat against his side as an anchor.
But then Vane stopped.
They were halfway up the cliff. Vane went rigid, his breath hitching in his throat. He was staring at a blank section of the rock wall.
"No," Vane whispered. "Not you."
Elian looked. He saw nothing but stone.
"Vane?" Elian shook him. "What do you see?"
"My brother," Vane choked out, tears instantly tracking through the soot on his face. "He's falling. I dropped him."
Vane fell to his knees, his hands scrabbling at the edge of the cliff as if trying to catch someone who had already fallen.
"I can save him," Vane gasped, reaching into the empty air over the drop. "I just need to reach..."
"Vane, stop!" Elian grabbed Vane's belt, hauling him back from the edge. "There is no one there! It's an Echo!"
"He's falling!" Vane roared, fighting Elian with frantic, desperate strength. "Let me go! I have to catch him!"
Elian couldn't hold him. Vane was a soldier, and even weakened, he was powerful. He was inches from throwing himself off the cliff to save a ghost.
Elian did the only thing he could think of.
He grabbed Vane's face with both hands and kissed him.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a collision. Elian poured his solar magic into the contact, pushing a surge of warm, golden light directly into Vane's mind. He flooded Vane's senses with heat, with life, with the now.
Vane froze. The desperate struggle ceased. He gasped against Elian's mouth, his hands coming up to grip Elian's wrists.
The illusion shattered.
Elian pulled back, breathless. Vane was staring at him, his pupils blown wide, the madness gone from his eyes. He looked dazed, swaying slightly on his knees.
"You kissed me," Vane whispered.
"You were jumping off a cliff," Elian panted, his face burning. "I had to... ground you."
Vane looked over the edge, seeing only the churning sea below. He shuddered, a full-body tremor, and slumped forward, resting his forehead against Elian's chest.
"I saw him," Vane murmured into Elian's tunic. "Every time I close my eyes, I see him fall."
"I know," Elian said softly, stroking Vane's damp hair. "But I've got you. We're climbing. We're not falling."
Vane took a deep, ragged breath. He pushed himself up, his movements stiff but controlled. He looked at Elian, a strange, fierce intensity in his gaze.
"Do not let me go, Elian," Vane said.
"Never," Elian promised.
They resumed the climb. This time, they moved as one entity, shoulder to shoulder. When the whispers came, Elian hummed a low note, letting his magic vibrate in the air to disrupt the sound. When the shadows reached for them, Vane slashed them away with his Void-Steel sword.
Finally, they reached the summit.
The Temple of Echoes was a structure of terrifying beauty. It was carved from the colossal skull of some ancient, long-dead leviathan. The bone was bleached white, polished by the wind until it shone like pearl. The entrance was the creature's maw, filled with rows of jagged teeth that formed the archway.
A massive door made of black ironwood blocked the way. It had no handle, no keyhole. Only a depression in the center shaped like a sunburst.
"This is it," Vane said, leaning against the bone wall. "The Silent Spire. Elara is inside."
Elian stepped up to the door. He placed his hand into the depression. It fit perfectly.
"It requires blood," Vane noted, pointing to a small spike in the center of the carving. "Royal blood."
Elian didn't hesitate. He pressed his palm against the spike.
A sharp pain, then a warmth. The blood seeped into the wood.
The door groaned. The heavy timber shuddered, dust falling from the frame. Slowly, grinding against centuries of disuse, the door swung inward.
Darkness spilled out—cold, stagnant air that smelled of dried herbs and madness.
"Elara?" Elian called out, his voice echoing into the gloom.
There was no answer. Only the sound of scratching. Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
Elian summoned a ball of light in his hand, holding it high. They stepped into the temple.
The interior was a chaotic mess of papers. Thousands of scrolls were nailed to the walls, scattered on the floor, hanging from the ceiling. Every inch of the temple was covered in writing. Equations. Star charts. Genealogies.
And in the center of the room, kneeling on the floor amidst a sea of parchment, was a woman. Her hair was a tangled mane of grey, hanging down to her waist. She wore tattered robes embroidered with the crest of the Royal Midwife.
She was scratching frantically at the floor with a piece of charcoal, muttering to herself.
"The orbit is wrong," she whispered, her voice rasping. "The shadow eats the sun. The sun eats the shadow. The baby... the baby burns."
"Elara," Elian said softly, taking a step forward.
The woman stopped scratching. She went perfectly still.
Slowly, she turned her head.
Her eyes were wild, rimmed with red. But when her gaze landed on Elian—on his violet eyes, on the light hovering in his hand—the madness seemed to pause.
She dropped the charcoal. Her hands, stained black with soot, reached out trembling toward him.
"My King?" she whispered, tears cutting tracks through the grime on her face. "Have you come to kill me?"
"No," Elian said, kneeling down so he was eye-level with her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the sun-glass rattle. He set it on the floor between them. The golden light inside pulsed.
"I came to bring you home."
Elara stared at the rattle. A sob broke from her throat, raw and agonizing. She looked from the toy to Elian, seeing the face of the man in the boy she had saved.
"You lived," she wept, collapsing forward to clutch Elian's hands. "Oh, by the Light, you lived."
Vane stood by the door, watching the reunion, his hand on his sword. He checked the hourglass in his mind.
One day left.
They had the witness. Now, they just had to get her past the Queen's blockade and into the Throne Room before the sun went black.