Present Chronicle (Monastery, Year 0)I awaken to a hollow silence. The monastery's corridors lie empty, yet I sense a presence—an echo of something lost. My quill feels heavy in my hand, as though weighted by the remorse of every fragment I have stolen. I glance at the candles: four still burn, though I only lit three. The fourth flickers on its own, as if guided by unseen breath.
On my desk lies a single sheet bearing two lines:
"The labyrinth remembers all who trespass within its walls. And it never forgets."
I trace the words with a trembling finger. The Inner Echoes murmur:
"You wrote that yourself last night."
"Or did the labyrinth whisper it to you?"
I cannot answer. Last night, I dreamed of a hidden chamber beneath Drak'Ur's volcanic forges. In that dream, the walls bled with molten eter, and runes glowed like embers. The novice, who sleeps in the chamber adjacent, stirred and muttered in an elf's tongue—words I do not know. Yet I fear I planted them in her mind.
I rise and cloak myself in the monastery's gray robe. The desert wind rattles the shutters. I step outside into the courtyard, where the moon's pale light reveals paths carved from obsidian. The air smells of ash and distant thunder.
My staff rests against a marble pillar. I pick it up and test its weight. The Memory Stone embedded in the crown pulses faintly—an irregular heartbeat. Someone, somewhere, calls to me.
I cross the courtyard toward the eastern gate. Normally it is barred with three seals; tonight only one remains. I place my hand on the cold iron. The gate creaks open of its own accord. Beyond lies the labyrinth—but this is the monastery's hidden sanctum, not the one beneath the desert.
I step inside.
Retrospective Scene (Circa –110 Years, The Forge of Drak'Ur)The ground trembled beneath me, each footstep echoing like a drum. Lava rivers glowed crimson in vast channels lined with black basalt. I had come to retrieve a shard of the Heart of Sur'ut—the last fragment known to exist—housed within the Iron Crucible, a furnace larger than any cathedral.
I was accompanied by two veterans of Mirast's elite guard: Captain Selara, whose spear had felled warbeasts thrice her size, and Sergeant Kharum, whose arms bore more scars than flesh. We moved through corridors carved from living rock, guided by runes that pulsed with eter's power.
At the chamber's entrance, molten metal hissed as it met air. The Crucible lay at the center, an anvil of pure obsidian ringed by chains of lightning. Above it, the Heart's fragment hovered: a blood-red shard no larger than my palm, spinning slowly in a bubble of flame.
I remembered the warnings: the shard's power could rend flesh and reality alike. But orders were orders. The Rada demanded unbroken possession of every Memory Stone.
I raised my staff. Its Memory Stone flared, and a shockwave hurled me backward. Selara roared and lunged at the chains, her spear striking the first link. Sparks flew; the chain writhed like a serpent, but she shattered it with a second blow. Kharum seized her arm and hauled her toward the Crucible.
I scrambled forward, vision blurred by heat. The shard pulsed faster, each pulse a heartbeat of the past. I whispered a binding rune, and a tendril of azure light snaked from my staff toward the shard. It recoiled as though in pain, then shot forward like a projectile.
I caught it in midair, clutching the shard above the Crucible's flame. Instantly, a torrent of memories crashed into me: the betrayal of my own lieutenant, the massacre of orphans I ordered, the agony of a god's death. I screamed, dropping the shard onto the anvil. The Crucible flared white-hot, molten eter cascading over the shard and melting it into a droplet that fell into a pool of glowing slag.
My companions shielded their eyes. When they looked again, the shard was gone—its essence fused with the forge's heart. I collapsed onto the basalt floor, limbs trembling, as the chamber fell silent.
I awoke hours later at the mouth of the forge, guided out by Selara's steady hand. The shard would never leak its power again, but I had paid the price: my mind was hollowed, stitched together with eter and flame. I carried this wound with me into every chronicle, every ritual, every dream.
Present Chronicle (Monastery, Year 0) — ConclusionThe labyrinth of the monastery is not stone and sand but memory and mind. Each corridor leads to another fragment—another shard of truth or illusion. I stand before the heart of this sanctum, where walls bear runes that shift like flames. I do not know if I seek the shard of memory or to bury it forever.
The novice follows silently. Her lantern casts dancing shadows. I turn to her and whisper:
"Remember only what is true. The rest… let the labyrinth keep."
She nods. We proceed deeper, into the pulse of the monastery's hidden forge, where echoes of my past burn like embers. And I write this:
"No memory is ever lost—only forgotten until the labyrinth calls it back."
I place a fresh sheet on the desk upon our return. The candles gutter, the latent heat of echoing forges still humming in my veins. I dip my quill and continue the chronicle.