Date: February 12, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
The tension in the Central Node continued to build, turning the air into a thick, vibrating substance. Three Heralds—Grak, Kaelen, and the Legate of Alvost—stood like three statues around which reality itself revolved. But this fragile stability was shattered when, from above, from the floating obsidian galleries, came the thin, piercing melody of a flute.
Five figures silently swooped down, landing on the light platform with the lightness of down. Arannis straightened, putting his flute away in the folds of his ironwood armor. His silver braids still trembled, and storm clouds swirled in his empty eye sockets. The fourth Herald took his position, and his presence sent sharp gusts of cold wind through the hall.
"So many vain ambitions in one hall," Arannis sang, his gaze sliding over the Order knights and Alvost legionaries with equal contempt. "You are all just noise, preventing the Temple from breathing."
Before the Legate of Alvost could respond to the Sylvan's insolence, the southern passage leading from the Pyramid of Scales shuddered with a heavy tread.
From the shadow of the corridor emerged a Giant. The Orc named Mirza moved unhurriedly, his monstrous cleaver resting on his shoulder, followed by the remnants of his detachment—a Pillar in bone armor and three Warriors. His Herald power crashed down on the hall like a rockslide, making even Kaelen involuntarily tighten his grip on his sword. In this unspoken hierarchy of power, Mirza felt the most weighty element—his inner essence was so dense that the space around him seemed frozen.
Mirza stopped, surveying those present with his amber eyes. He paused on Grak the Axe, giving him a brief nod as an equal, and spat on the mirrored floor.
"Five Heralds..." the Orc boomed. "Seems the Temple of True Equilibrium will get enough blood today to sate itself for the next thousand years."
The hall fell into a silence broken only by the hum of the central crystal. But the circle was not yet complete. At the very end of the platform, from a narrow, almost invisible shaft, the last participants of this ascent appeared.
Four knights of the Seventh Detachment emerged into the light. Kaedan walked first, leaning on Olaf's shoulder. The sight of the young man made Liana and Elwin cry out in horror. His Unbreakable Armor was reduced to a pile of debris: the left vambrace was completely gone, the steel cuirass was crushed, and his face beneath the layers of dust and blood showed no sign of life.
Beside him walked Iskon. His left arm was tightly bound to his body, his gait was ragged, but his gaze remained as icy and arrogant as ever. Bert and Olaf, though recovered thanks to the Core, looked exhausted to the limit.
"Kaedan! Iskon!" Grak the Axe stepped towards his men, and for the first time in this ordeal, relief sounded in his stern voice.
Mirza, noticing them, let out a hoarse laugh that echoed under the dome. "Look at that! The very pups who buried themselves under stones."
Kaedan stopped beside Grak, feeling his damaged Vessel greedily absorb the pure energy of the Central Node. He surveyed the hall. The entire Seventh Detachment—what remained of it—was together again. Thirteen knights against the legions of Alvost, the magic of Rakesh, the storms of the Sylvans, and the fury of the Orcs.
"We're here, Commander," Kaedan uttered hoarsely, straightening his back with difficulty. His remaining right vambrace glinted dully, responding to the proximity of this place of power.
Six groups. Five Heralds. And one Central Crystal, pulsing with unearthly light. The Temple of True Equilibrium had finally gathered all the players on its board. No one rushed to attack immediately—the price of the first move in such company was equal to death. The air in the Node was so oversaturated with the inner power of those present that any spark could trigger an explosion capable of destroying the entire mountain.
"Now that everyone is here..." The Legate of Alvost slowly drew his sword, its blade singing with anticipation of blood. "Shall we end this comedy and determine who has the right to the relic?"
The battle for the Temple had reached its climax. All paths converged at a single point, and that point was ready to explode.