Date: February 12, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
Three hours had passed since the echo of the Alvost Legate's triumph faded into the depths of the mirrored corridors. The air in the technical shaft had become stagnant and heavy, saturated with the smell of medicinal herbs and sweat. Elwin listened to the silence—it no longer vibrated with the presence of others. The Alvost Herald had gone far ahead, leaving behind only mountains of crystalline dust and an empty hall.
"It's time," Elwin said quietly, rising to his feet. "We can't stay here. If the Temple begins to restructure, this shaft could become our common grave."
Helping the wounded was not easy. Brand, despite his through-and-through wound, found the strength to stand, leaning on Mark. The veteran's face was grey, and every movement was accompanied by a stifled groan, but his Warrior essence stubbornly fought for life. Ulf looked worse—the loss of his arm had robbed him not only of combat effectiveness but also of a significant part of his inner balance. He swayed, and his gaze was dull, lacking its usual fire.
They slowly emerged from the hiding place. The mirrored hall greeted them with pristine purity—the Temple seemed to have absorbed the Centurion's fragments, leaving no trace of the recent slaughter. Only a barely perceptible trembling of the air where the Herald had used his energy reminded them of the power capable of tearing Pillars apart.
"We go to the southern exit," Elwin walked ahead, carefully watching his step. "I remember the structure of this sector. If we go through the gallery, we should reach the descent to the lower chambers."
They moved slowly, transformed from an elite detachment into a group of shadows trying not to attract attention. Elwin felt guilt. He knew that Grak the Axe or Kaedan wouldn't have yielded to this place, but he wasn't them. He was merely a keeper of memory, whose task was to record the truth, not break through it with a shield.
The path led them into a long passage where mirrored panels were suddenly replaced by bas-reliefs of matte black stone. It was a chronicle carved with such detail that the figures seemed about to come alive. The walls depicted hundreds of beings of different races entering the Temple. Some were majestic, others pitiful, but all looked in one direction—upwards, towards the floating dome.
Elwin involuntarily slowed his pace. His Spirit of "Tenacious Memory" suddenly responded with a sharp, stabbing pain in his temples. The young man touched the bas-relief depicting a warrior bowing before a set of scales.
In that same second, the world before his eyes swam.
It wasn't a clear vision. Rather, it was a stream of fragmentary, chaotic images burned into the memory of the stone itself. Elwin saw a blinding light, heard the cry of a thousand voices merging into a single note, and felt a cold, indifferent will evaluating each entrant.
"...not a treasure... culling... superfluous elements... purity of weight..." words surfaced in his consciousness and immediately sank into the fog.
Elwin pulled his hand back, breathing heavily. Sweat beaded on his forehead. "Elwin? What did you see?" Mark looked at his friend with concern.
"I... I'm not sure," Elwin rubbed his temples, trying to quell the throbbing pain. "My Spirit catches echoes, but they are too ancient and distorted. This Temple... we all err in calling it a treasury. A memory of something else lives in these stones. This place is like a giant filter. It... tests us for compliance with some ancient standard."
"A standard of strength?" Brand rasped, leaning on Mark.
"Not only," Elwin looked at the bas-relief, where scholars and simple laborers were depicted alongside great warriors. "Something else matters here. Balance. But the images are too vague. I can't fully grasp them."
They moved on. The carvings on the walls became increasingly abstract, depicting not people, but geometric shapes and flows of power converging on the center. In the air, that low hum they had heard at the beginning of their journey returned, but now it had a rhythm—deep, like the heartbeat of the mountain itself.
Elwin understood that their group was the weakest in this contest of titans. They had no Herald, their energy was depleted, and two of the four were crippled. But the vague hints the Temple gave him planted a seed of doubt in his soul. Perhaps those who cut their way through with force were making the same mistake as hundreds of others whose bones had already turned to dust in these halls.
"We will find them," Elwin whispered, more to himself than the others. "We must reach the center. Not for the Relic, but to understand why we are truly here."
Ahead, a wide staircase leading down into the darkness of the lower levels appeared. There, somewhere in the depths, the wills of Alvost, Rakesh, and the Order were colliding, and Elwin knew their walk on the razor's edge was only beginning.