#7
The third night. The air in the heart of Gloomwald felt like crystal on the verge of breaking. The darkness here was thicker, more self-aware, as if the forest itself were holding its breath. Thalia and Kaelen hid behind a massive tangle of roots that rose like the arches of a natural cathedral, watching the Monolith.
It was not made by human hands. Three times the height of a man, it was formed of black stone that reflected starlight in a wrong way—like it was swallowing it. Its surface was perfectly smooth, without carvings or flaws. Yet Thalia could feel it pulsing, a single, deep, constant echo, like the heartbeat of the earth itself. This was the "Shattered Light"—or rather, the place where the phenomenon would occur.
"No sign of the Inquisitors," Kaelen whispered, his eyes constantly scanning the trees surrounding the open clearing where the monolith stood.
"They're here," Thalia replied softly. She didn't see them; she felt them. A trained silence, a deliberate void in the sea of the forest's echoes. "Hidden well. Waiting, like us."
Their plan was simple and extremely risky. Thanks to Isolde's map and clues, they had arrived early and located a hidden access point—a narrow tunnel behind a small waterfall a few hundred meters from the monolith. The tunnel was said to lead to a chamber beneath it. But to reach it, they would have to cross the open clearing, fully exposed.
"We wait until the 'Light' appears," Kaelen said. "It'll distract them."
"Or make them act," Thalia added. She clutched the pendant at her chest. Tonight, it felt warm, as if it were pulsing in rhythm with the monolith.
They didn't have to wait long.
First, the shadows shifted. Moonlight, which had been filtered by the Giant Canopy into a silvery haze, suddenly concentrated. It was as if an invisible, colossal lens formed in the sky, gathering all the light into a single, solid, cold beam.
The beam descended, striking the peak of the monolith.
The monolith absorbed it, becoming a pillar of pure white light for one blinding second. Then, from its base, a pattern of light—like cracks or a network of runes—spread across the ground, forming a perfect circle with a radius of ten paces.
At the same moment, everything echoed.
Not just echoes of the past. All of Gloomwald seemed to sing with a single voice—a voice that was not sound, but pure vibration that traveled through earth, air, and bone. Thalia stifled a scream, pressing her hands to her uninjured ears. It was too much. Too vast. It was the song of the Celestial Chorus itself, though muted and distorted by the seal, leaking into the world during this moment of weakness.
Bound. Chained. Angry. Longing. Freedom. Retribution. Promise. Betrayal.
Those raw emotion-intents flooded her consciousness.
"THALIA!" Kaelen shook her, his face pale as he struggled to remain upright himself.
She nodded, fighting to rebuild her mental shield. "Now! While they're disrupted too!"
They leapt from hiding, sprinting toward the circle of light around the monolith. From the forest's edge, three figures burst forth—the Inquisitors in their metal masks, moving with unnatural speed, unaffected by the song. They had been trained for this.
"Don't stop!" Kaelen shouted, pulling Thalia along.
They reached the circle of light. The instant Thalia's foot crossed its boundary, the ground inside vanished—not collapsing, but transforming into solid light. She and Kaelen fell, but did not fall—they drifted downward through a spiraling tunnel of light.
Above them, she saw the silhouettes of the Inquisitors reach the edge of the opening, reaching in, only to be repelled by an invisible force, as if the circle had sealed itself.
Then the view above disappeared. They descended for several seconds that felt eternal before landing gently on a crystalline floor.
They stood inside an underground crystal dome. At the center of the chamber lay a simple wooden chest. And in the crystal walls around them were reflected not their own images, but moving scenes—glimpses of Althea's life, her research, and her determined face.
This was the repository.
With a pounding heart, Thalia approached the chest. There was no lock. On its lid was carved the same symbol as her pendant: a heart. She placed the pendant over the carving.
With a soft click, the chest opened.
Inside were no piles of manuscripts or elaborate artifacts. Only three items:
1. A worn leather journal.
2. A memory crystal larger than Roland's, pulsing with warm golden light.
3. A short ritual blade, its edge made of the same black glass-like material as the monolith, its hilt engraved with a phoenix symbol.
Thalia reached for the journal first. The handwriting was her mother's—quick, passionate, filled with sketches of symbols and diagrams. She flipped through the pages rapidly, her eyes catching key phrases:
"…the seal is not a prison, but a sick symbiosis…"
"…the Chorus are not monsters; they are wounded…"
"…the key to renewing the covenant lies in the blood of the Warden and pure intent…"
"…the Phoenix Choice requires sacrifice, but not self-sacrifice—the sacrifice of old lies…"
Then she reached the final entry, written hastily, almost prophetically:
They know. I do not have much time. If the one reading this is my child, know this: I love you more than anything. And I believe in you.
The truth is this: the Silent Heart does not only imprison the Chorus. It also imprisons a part of every Warden who has ever fed it. Their memories, their emotions, their souls. That is the true cost. Melpomene… she will sacrifice everything, including herself, to preserve this system because she believes it is the only way. She is wrong.
The key lies in forgiveness, not power. To renew the covenant, someone with the blood of a Warden (myself, or my descendant) must enter the Silent Heart during a moment of weakness—during the Shattered Light—and offer release. Release the Chorus's hatred, and release the grip of the past Wardens on the seal.
This crystal contains all that I know, all that I feel about them. This blade is not for battle; it is a resonance tool. It will amplify your intent—whether to renew or to destroy.
The choice is yours, my child. Repair the cage, or free the imprisoned. Or… find a third path. One I could not see.
Whatever you choose, be brave. Be the light.
—Mother
Tears fell onto the journal's pages. Thalia lifted the memory crystal, feeling her mother's warmth as if it were almost tangible.
"Thalia," Kaelen said tensely. He pointed upward.
The crystal walls of the dome were beginning to crack. From above came muffled impacts—the Inquisitors were trying to break through with their psionic power. The fractures spread like a spider's web.
"They'll get in," Kaelen said. "We have to decide. Now."
Thalia looked at the journal, then the crystal, then the blade. The third path. What was it? Negotiate? How did one negotiate with beings imprisoned for centuries, whose hatred had poisoned the land?
She picked up the blade. As her hand closed around the phoenix hilt, a vision seized her.
She saw the Silent Heart—not as an artifact, but as a complex, beautiful, and tragic network of energy, like a broken clock. She saw nodes of light bound to it—the past Wardens, including the shadow of Melpomene, already beginning to be entangled. And at its core, she saw the wounded, furious light of the Chorus.
And she saw something else. A connection between herself, through her mother's pendant, and one of those wounded lights. A red thread of truth.
"Blood of the Warden and pure intent…"
"We won't renew the seal," Thalia said, her voice suddenly calm and certain. "And we won't free them blindly."
"Then what?" Kaelen asked, alert.
"We'll open a dialogue," Thalia replied. "My mother was right. The key is forgiveness. But forgiveness requires acknowledgment—acknowledgment of wrongdoing." She looked at Kaelen. "I have to go into the Silent Heart. Now, while it's weak."
"It's in the heart of Lumenspire! And it's crawling with troops!"
"Not the usual way." Thalia raised the black blade. "This monolith… I can feel the connection. It's a back door. An emergency access point built by the Founders, perhaps for a moment like this. We can use it." She placed her hand on the crystal wall, feeling the flow of energy. "It will take me there. But I have to go alone."
"No way! I'm coming with you."
"No, Kaelen." Thalia met his eyes, pleading. "Someone has to hold the position here. If I fail… if I'm lost or the seal collapses… someone has to tell Isolde, Elara—everyone. And…" She squeezed his hand. "Someone has to be here to pull me back if I need it. Trust me."
Kaelen looked at her, conflict written across his face. At last, he nodded, his jaw tight. "I'll hold them here as long as I can. But you have to come back, Thalia. Or I'll go in and drag you out myself."
A small smile touched Thalia's face. She took her mother's memory crystal and secured it at her belt. Gripping the black blade with both hands, she turned toward the center of the chamber, where the energy felt strongest.
Above them, the cracks widened. The impacts grew louder.
Thalia closed her eyes, focusing on everything she knew, everything she felt. On her mother's love. On the betrayal of Vance and his men. On Melpomene's burden. On the wounded song of the Chorus. On Gloomwald's hopeful melody.
She was not a Warden.
She was not a Destroyer.
She was a Listener.
And she would make sure their voices were heard.
She raised the blade and plunged it into the crystal floor.
There was no explosion. Only a bell tolling—so deep and pure that it made the chamber, the monolith, perhaps all of Gloomwald tremble.
The crystal walls shattered not outward, but inward, becoming millions of shards of light swirling around Thalia. Light from above poured down, enveloping her. She felt herself pulled—not through space, but through layers of meaning, through the very lattice of the seal itself.
Her vision blurred. She heard Kaelen's distant shout. Then she saw golden light and cold fury.
And she felt the presence of something vast, ancient, and deeply wounded surrounding her.
She had arrived.
Inside the Silent Heart.