The new corridor was narrow and uneven. The light from the crystal embedded in Arien's blade flickered with each step, as if it hesitated to move forward. The walls, once smooth, now displayed cracks from which a dark, almost living sludge oozed. In the distance, a deep and constant sound echoed, like a profound breath coming from the bowels of the labyrinth.
Nyra walked beside Arien, alert to every noise, every change in the air. Her eyes with vertical pupils analyzed the path as if she could see more than what was visible.
Arien:
— "What do you know about the Static Flame?"
Nyra didn't answer immediately. She ran her fingers along a wall covered in faded carvings and murmured something in an ancient language, as if asking permission to remember.
Nyra:
— "My people call it the Silent Spark. They say it was born the day a god tried to love a mortal and, upon failing, burned his own hope. But the flame born from that act did not consume flesh or wood... it consumed memories. Desires. Promises."
Arien:
— "Like a fire that burns from within."
Nyra:
— "Yes. And sometimes, you don't even have to see it to feel it. It leaves people empty. Erases their purpose."
They reached an octagonal chamber. In the center, a broken statue held a bowl where small black flames burned. It was like watching shadows in combustion. No heat. No real light. Only the suffocating presence of something burning without reason.
Arien approached slowly. The crystal in his weapon shone brightly, then went completely dark. The black flame seemed to "notice" him.
Nyra:
— "Careful. It reacts to the truth you carry. And to what you hide from yourself."
Arien:
— "Then it will want much from me."
He stretched out his hand, hesitating for a second, and touched the edge of the bowl.
Instantly, images invaded his mind. The night Mahran was destroyed. But now, he saw details his memory had erased: the sound of his sister's bell ringing before the fireless explosion. A hooded figure watching from afar. And a mark on the ground: the same spiral he carried now.
Arien:
— "It wasn't demons… not only demons. Someone was guiding it."
Nyra:
— "The Static Flame never moves on its own. There is always a hand. An intention. An emptiness being fed."
He stumbled back, breathing heavily. The flame in the bowl calmed down again, as if it had fed on his torment.
Nyra:
— "It shows. But never explains. It's up to you to put the pieces together."
Arien:
— "It's not fair..."
Nyra:
— "Nothing here is. Not life. Not what comes after."
There was compassion in her voice, but also distance. As if she had already gone through this and decided not to lose herself again.
They left the room in silence. The next corridor seemed to pulse with a red light coming from within the stones. Each meter felt hotter, tighter, more... personal.
Nyra told one of the ancient tales of Nostraïl: a hero who tried to take the Static Flame to the world to warm empty hearts. But all he managed was to spread absence.
Nyra:
— "He lost his face. Not physically. People stopped recognizing him. Even mirrors refused to reflect his image."
Arien:
— "Is that a curse or a warning?"
Nyra:
— "Both. The fire that does not burn also does not protect. It only consumes."
As they walked, Arien's crystal began to glow again. Faint, but steady. He knew something else awaited him. Not just memory. Something real. Something present.
And at the end of that corridor, stone doors began to open by themselves.