Date: February 12, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
While Legate Valerius and Baron Kaelen slowly tightened the ring around the thirteen knights of the Order of Order, Arannis's attention was fixed solely on the octahedron floating in the center of the hall. The Sylvan had no intention of wasting his strength destroying the "stone northerners." For him, the conflict of humans and orcs was merely a convenient curtain behind which he could make his decisive move.
"Go," Arannis whispered barely audibly to his companions.
The Sylvans turned into barely perceptible emerald shadows. They didn't run—they seemed to glide along the air currents that Arannis skillfully directed with his Spirit of the Storm Wind. The Sylvan Herald surged towards the central bridge of light, intending to reach the crystal before the first drop of blood fell on the obsidian floor. In his understanding, only the children of the forest were worthy of possessing Zanra's legacy.
But the space before the bridge suddenly grew heavy. The air, which had been obedient to Arannis's will, suddenly stilled, turning into a dense wall.
From the shadow of a colossal Atlantean statue, Mirza stepped out. The Orc didn't use any elegant movement techniques; he simply took a wide step, and his very presence cut the Sylvan's "wind lines." Mirza raised his cleaver, its notched blade blocking Arannis's path.
"In a hurry, pointy-ears?" Mirza boomed, undisguised threat in his voice. "Want to take the toy while the adults are talking?"
Arannis halted in the air a couple of feet above the floor. His silver braids lashed against his shoulders, and black lightning swirled in his eye-vortices. "Step aside, scavenger," the Sylvan's voice was filled with icy arrogance. "Your crude power is merely a hindrance here. You don't understand the music of this place. You will only stain the crystal with your unclean blood."
Mirza only laughed hoarsely, the sound sending a vibration through the hall that made the Vessels of the Order's Warriors ache with unease.
"Music?" The Orc shifted his grip on his cleaver. "I hear only the ring of steel. And that ring tells me you are too light for this hall. My Spirit of Ancestors remembers your kind. You sing a lot, but fall silent quickly when your spine is broken."
Arannis wasted no more words. He instantly raised his flute to his lips and produced a sharp, piercing note.
"Spirit of the Storm Wind: Typhoon Blade!"
The air around the Sylvan Herald turned into myriad invisible, razor-sharp blades that hurtled towards Mirza with insane speed. It was an attack capable of shredding an entire platoon of Warriors into a sieve.
Mirza didn't even try to dodge. The ritual scars on his arms flared with a deep bronze light.
"Blessing of the Unbreakable Chieftain," he boomed.
A barely perceptible haze, resembling the outline of a huge shield, formed around the Orc. The invisible wind blades screeched against this defense, causing Mirza no harm whatsoever. The Orc stepped forward, each step accompanied by a dull thud that sent cracks through the obsidian slabs.
"My power is the power of the earth itself, Sylvan," Mirza raised his cleaver for a devastating blow. "And your wind... it merely blows dust."
Two Heralds clashed in the center of the hall. The emerald flashes of Arannis met the heavy bronze strikes of Mirza. It was a battle of two different philosophies: elusive speed and vacuum strikes against crushing density and age-old resilience. The shockwaves from their combat radiated in all directions, making even Legate Valerius and Baron Kaelen momentarily slow their advance towards the Order.
The Central Crystal, sensing the collision of so many powerful sources of power, began to pulse brighter. Its light shifted from cold silver to a disturbing crimson hue.
Grak the Axe, finding himself at the epicenter of an impending two-front battle, tightened his grip on his axe. "Stand your ground!" he roared to his knights. "While they divide the skin of an unkilled beast, we will become the bone they choke on!"
Kaedan shielded his face with his remaining vambrace, protecting himself from the gusts of wind and stone chips. He saw the two titans tearing space apart and understood: the end was near. Either they would withstand this chaos, or the Temple of True Equilibrium would become their eternal resting place.