Truths That Burn

The descent into the Archives Beneath began at dusk. They reached the edge of the chasm where the old city had collapsed into itself decades ago. What remained were twisted iron beams and shattered columns jutting from layers of forgotten stone. Beneath it all, an obsidian staircase spiraled downward, cut not by tools but by time—as if the world itself had carved a path for them.

Maela held a torch, its flame dancing weakly against the stale air. Alric followed with his blade drawn, the weight of their journey growing heavier with every step. The silence below was not mere absence of sound—it was suppression.

"No one should come here alone," Maela whispered.

"No one ever did," Alric replied.

The Archives were no longer just books and scrolls. The walls were lined with memories—frozen moments locked in fragments of crystal, each whispering echoes as they passed. Murmurs of wars, betrayals, births, deaths. Truths no longer welcome above.

They stopped at a wide chamber carved in a perfect circle, the floor tiled with glyphs that pulsed faintly.

A voice greeted them.

"I wondered how long before someone found this place again."

From the shadows stepped a tall, wiry man in robes stitched with ink-thread. His skin was pale, his eyes like fading ink blots.

"My name is Calren. I am the last Archivist."

Maela took a step forward. "You survived Vael's purge?"

"Survived is generous. I was forgotten."

He beckoned them toward the center of the room. A shard hovered in stasis above a pedestal, suspended in a field of light.

"This shard holds not memory, but origin."

Alric narrowed his gaze. "Origin of what?"

Calren smiled, bitter and tired. "Of the world. Of the Veil. Of the First Shatter."

When Maela touched the shard, the world dropped away.

They stood now in an ancient hall, one that pulsed with color and voice. Figures walked past them—not human, but luminous, their forms shifting like candlelight. At the center of this memory stood a woman with golden eyes and silver veins.

Calren's voice echoed from nowhere: "She was the First. Her name was Verenai. And she shattered the balance."

Verenai raised her arms, splitting a great crystal into seven shards. Each sang a different truth. One of love. One of war. One of time. One of loss. One of unity. One of power. And the final—of choice.

"But the world could not hold all truths. So they fought. And when the war ended, the shards buried themselves into flesh, stone, and sky."

The vision faded.

Maela staggered. "These aren't just magical relics. They're... philosophies."

Calren nodded. "Each bearer reshapes reality in the image of their shard's truth."

Alric's voice was a rasp. "And someone has the shard of Choice."

"Yes," Calren said. "And they are making terrible use of it."

They spent hours gathering lost knowledge, scrolls written in blood, etchings on bones. Maela found a map of convergence points—places where shards could amplify one another.

"If they're headed here," she said, pointing to a region near the Aether Wastes, "they'll be able to amplify their reach. Influence entire cities."

Calren placed a frail hand on her shoulder. "But it will burn them too. The more you bend the truth, the more it burns."

From the far end of the chamber came a rumble. The old stone trembled. Dust fell in curtains.

"They found us," Alric said, drawing his sword.

From the passage emerged not soldiers—but reflections.

Twisted versions of themselves. One Maela with blood-soaked eyes. An Alric crowned in bone. And a dozen others, distorted, broken by what they believed.

"Not again," Maela growled, raising a glyph-sigil.

They fought with fury. Each reflection mimicked their moves, but lacked their heart. Alric turned a fatal strike into a feint, disarming his double. Maela sent glyphs rippling through the chamber, shattering three illusions at once.

Finally, only one reflection remained—a Maela who knelt, hands open, eyes pleading.

"You don't have to be cruel," she whispered.

Maela hesitated.

"I know," she replied. And let her vanish.

In the stillness that followed, Calren handed Maela a small stone ring. Inside it shimmered the glow of dormant truth.

"You will need this at the Convergence," he said.

Alric looked back at the broken chamber. "And you?"

Calren smiled sadly. "This is where I belong. Among the truths no one dares remember."

They turned to leave, but Calren called out one last time.

"Beware the bearer of the seventh shard. They no longer seek truth. Only dominance."

They left the Archives as dawn breached the world above. The wind was bitter, the sky painted with violet ash. Far on the horizon, a pillar of light rose from the Wastes—a flare of gathering power.

Maela looked over her shoulder.

"If we fail, truth dies."

Alric nodded. "Then we don't fail."

They mounted their steeds, the road ahead shadowed by uncertainty, lit only by the hum of the shards at their side.

From far behind, the Archives gave one last groan—a sigh from the earth itself.

And the path to the Convergence began in earnest.