The crimson light of the moon filtered through the narrow corridors of crimson rock, casting flickering shadows around Arien and Khaelin. With each step, the ground emitted faint cracks, as if the two-hundred-year-old stones were protesting the presence of intruders.
“This labyrinth was carved by the ancient flame singers,” Khaelin commented, breaking the heavy silence. “They say every turn holds a song of power. Pay attention to the symbols carved on the walls.”
Arien approached a monolith where the rock seemed to remember pulsing black veins. There, glimpses of inscriptions formed what he believed to be a score—curved lines intertwining like runes.
“Can you decipher anything?”
Khaelin arched an eyebrow, illuminated by a crimson reflection.
“It’s difficult… But I see the symbol of Ivelmyr: a black star surrounded by wilted petals. Those who walk this path summon his Heralds of Smoke.”
Arien clenched his fists, feeling the fragment kept close to his chest pulse urgently.
“Heralds of Smoke?”
“Ethereal beings,” she explained, leaning against a ledge embedded in the wall. “Half spirit, half absence—sent to test the resolve of those who dare profane these stones.”
They didn’t need to walk far before the air grew heavier. A whisper tore through the wind—a muffled sound that multiplied into several voices. Before they could react, three translucent figures materialized ahead: dark shapes wrapped in spirals of purple smoke, faceless, but with hands sharp as blades of mist.
Khaelin raised her curved blade, its edge reflecting the moonlight.
“Arien, stay behind me. They strike those who hesitate!”
The first Herald lunged forward in an explosion of smoke, aiming to envelop Arien in a suffocating embrace. With a precise leap, he spun his spear, slicing the specter in half—but instead of dissipating, the smoke parted like a veil, translucent, drawing him in.
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“They can’t be wounded like mortal flesh!” Arien shouted, retreating.
Khaelin struck her blade against the rocky ground, summoning a small wave of incandescent sand sparks.
“Use the crystal!” she commanded, pointing to the leather pouch where the fragment pulsed.
Arien hesitated only for an instant, drawing the crystal and gripping it tightly. The internal light vibrated, expanding a ray of cold energy that circled the nearest Herald. The figure recoiled, emitting a sharp moan—the first sound those beings allowed to escape their mute essence.
As the second Herald turned to attack, Khaelin advanced, wielding her curved blade as if it were an extension of her arm. The cut sliced through the smoke, which gradually dissipated, returning to a faint swirl on the ground.
When the last Herald expired, Arien lowered the crystal and noticed a new stealthy inscription carved into the rock:
“He who masters the non-fire will see the passage.”
Khaelin drew closer and read aloud:
“The passage… there must be a hidden exit beyond these walls, perhaps beneath our feet.”
Arien pressed his hand against the monolith beside him. The rock trembled and slid aside, revealing a descending staircase.
“Is this where we go next?” he asked.
“Yes,” Khaelin replied, with a tired smile. “Follow me. The next level holds the silver bell I found in Mahran.”
As they descended, the corridor became narrower and stifling. The echo of their footsteps seemed to multiply infinitely. Arien felt the fragment pulse more strongly and suddenly remembered the whispered words of his adoptive father:
“Even without knowing who you are, you carry in your chest the flame that makes you human.”
He furrowed his brow, wondering if the “human flame” had anything to do with the fire that never burns. But there was no time for musings: at the end of the stairs, a door of black metal blocked their way. At its center, a bell-shaped engraving.
Khaelin sighed and touched the bell hanging around her neck—the same one Arien had heard in the ruins of Mahran. A soft chime reverberated, and the door creaked open slowly, letting out a chill—unusual for that desert.
As they passed through the entrance, they found themselves in an oval chamber lined with dark mirrors. In the center, on an obsidian pedestal, rested a motionless torch: pure static flame, emanating dancing shapes within the diffuse column.
Arien tightened his grip on the crystal.
“It’s time to discover what this fire wants from me.”
Khaelin nodded, unsheathing her blade.
Together, they advanced to face the Static Flame—and, in doing so, they hardly realized that this moment would mark the true beginning of an alliance whose echo would resonate through every volume of their journey.