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Amidst the towering scroll racks, a striking woman sat bathed in candlelight, silver-black hair shimmering like the ocean at dawn. Deep sapphire eyes, heavy with exhaustion, traced the faintly glowing rune script on the parchment before her. Another scroll joined the growing pile at her side. With a sigh, she reached for the next.
Her robes, soft shades of blue and green, flowed with her every movement, blending seamlessly with the shadows of the temple. Her skin had a delicate, almost translucent quality, as if she were somehow a part of this ancient place.
She leaned back in her seat, stretching away hours of work, and let out a long sigh.
The temple windows did not open. They shattered.
Glass exploded as the tall crystalline windows burst inward, raining shards like colored stars. The wind howled through the chamber, extinguishing candles, sending scrolls flying. And through the chaos came a figure—a man in tattered greens and browns, his oathblade flashing in the storm light. He landed in a crouch, rain dripping from his sodden hair, emerald eyes locked onto hers.
"You know you can always use the front entrance, Tav," she said, her voice steady despite the storm raging around them.
"And you can stop giving me so many reasons to come back to this Essence-forsaken place, Lia," Tavion said, his voice dripping with exasperation.
In one fluid motion, he took two steps forward, sheathed his blade as he leaned against her large desk. As the hilt snapped shut, the windstorm outside ceased abruptly, leaving only the soft patter of rain to accompany the eerie silence that filled the ancient temple.
"You know this is important work, Tavion," Liara said, her voice rising with unexpected passion as she stood. Her hands trembled slightly, and her sapphire eyes burned with intensity. "We only have one chance to get this right, or all of our plotting will be for nothing!"
"That's the problem, isn't it?" Tavion shot back, taking a step toward her. His green eyes locked onto hers, matching her glare. "Your plotting and conniving never end, Liara!"
Before he could take another step, Liara's hand flew to her oathblade, drawing it just enough to catch the light. "Tavion," she said coldly, "if I remember correctly, it was you who suggested we act during this Solstice."
The pained look on Tavion's face only confirmed her words. He hesitated, then placed his blade on the desk between them, the gesture both a concession and a challenge. "There must be another way, Lia," he said, his voice softening. "This is madness... he pulled every last one of us from the dirt and dust and gave us a future. How can we do this to him?"
His eyes fell, his face a contorted mask of shame. The weight of their betrayal hung heavy in the air, unspoken but undeniable.
Liara stood silently, resting a hand on her old friend's shoulder. Her touch was firm, unyielding, as she quietly sheathed her oathblade and placed it next to his. "You know why, Tav," she said, her voice low but steady. "This wasn't decided last night over supper while you were making your rounds in Sacyr. This has been years in the making." Anger flushed her pale cheeks, deepening the intensity in her sapphire eyes.
Tavion hesitated, his jaw tightening as he weighed his next words. He knew they would change everything, but today, he would find the courage he'd lacked when they first began this atrocity. This is wrong, Liara. You know it is." His voice was raw, torn between duty and doubt. "Tell me—convince me that this isn't madness." his voice trailed off, eyes snaping back up, suddenly full of resolve as he glanced to the blades between them.
Tavion's wrist flicked almost imperceptibly, and the air around his oathblade stirred, a faint breeze curling around the scabbard. The blade slid free with a whisper, the steel gleaming in the dim light as it hovered for a moment in midair. But as his fingers reached for the hilt, the room seemed to blur ever slightly, as if viewed through a rippling pool of water. Suddenly his movements were sluggish, taking all his strength to simply move his arm.
He was too late. She had suspected him all along.
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A cold line of sweat traced Tavion's forehead as frost began to creep across his dueling hand and the soles of his boots. The chill bit into his skin, sharp and unrelenting. His breath came in shallow gasps, visible in the suddenly frigid air. Liara stood before him, her expression calm but her eyes blazing with a quiet fury. She was older than him, more practiced, and far more dangerous.
Perhaps I should have attacked the moment I arrived, he thought, his mind racing. But now, with the frost spreading and his hand locked in place, the odds were grim.
"I can see the conflict on your face, Tavion," Liara said, her voice softening for the first time. "I know you don't want to do this. And yet, you cling to this self-perception as some kind of hero." She shook her head, her silver-black hair catching the dim light. "None of us are heroes, Tav. Not after Aekeroh. Not after all those poor souls. Now, all we can do is clean up our mess and set it right." Her face soured, as if she'd bitten into something bitter.
"Aekeroh was a legend long before I was born, Lia," Tavion replied, his voice steady despite the cold creeping up his legs. "Ayla and I may have spent the least time with the master, but that's given us a perspective unclouded by centuries of regrets and horrors."
"Leaving you without the long view," Liara shot back, her frustration slipping into her tone again. She began to pace, her robes swirling around her like a storm. "You and Ayla think in terms of decades, not centuries. You're barely a hundred years old, Tav. You're a child trying to lecture adults. Deep down, you know that-or you would have spoken against this plan from the start."
The frost had reached his knees now, its icy grip tightening with every passing second. Tavion's breath came in visible puffs, and his fingers twitched uselessly at his sides. In a few minutes, he'd be completely immobilized, helpless to stop whatever scheme Liara had concocted this time. Strangely, the thought brought him a measure of comfort. At least then, the decision would be out of his hands.
"Did you bring Eldaine and Ayla into this," Liara asked, her voice sharp, "or did you come alone?"
Tavion considered lying, but he knew her gift would see through it in an instant. Today, at least, he would speak the truth. "I was hoping I could convince you," he said, his voice steady despite the cold still gripping his legs. "Believe it or not." The silence between them stretched, their clouded breaths mingling in the frigid air. "We're often at odds, Lia, but I know you've worked harder for the realms than all of us combined."
Liara's eyes narrowed as she scanned his face, searching for any hint of deception. Finding none, her expression softened, and with it, the frost encasing his body slowed to a halt. "You won't change my mind, Tavion," she said, her voice firm but not unkind. "I've spent years weighing the logic of this plan. It's the best chance we have to continue the work."
The determination in her eyes told Tavion everything he needed to know. She would never stop. She would never be convinced. If he wanted to end this, he would have to end her.
"We're doing him a kindness, Tav," Liara said, her voice full of resolve.
The words lingered in the cold air, but Tavion said nothing. The rain tapped against the shattered windowpanes, its rhythm distant, unimportant. Liara inhaled slowly, her fingers brushing the hilt of her oathblade—not out of threat, but out of habit. She had known this moment would come. That someone, one of them, would falter. The Master had seen it, too. Perhaps he had even counted on it.
years ago, she had first uncovered the truth. The runes had whispered it to her—had cursed her with knowledge she could not unlearn.
Two years earlier…
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The temple was silent, save for the soft crackle of candles and the faint rustle of parchment as Liara unrolled another scroll. The runes glimmered faintly in the dim light, their meaning just out of reach, like a half-remembered dream. She had spent centuries deciphering her master's writings, but this page-this single, fragile page-had eluded her until now.
Her hand trembled as she traced the symbols, the weight of their meaning settling over her like a shroud. The language was unlike anything she had ever seen, a labyrinth of curves and angles that seemed to shift under her gaze. It was a language not meant for mortal eyes, a language that whispered secrets too vast for any one mind to hold. And yet, she had persisted, driven by a need to understand the man who had given her everything-and who now seemed poised to take it all away.
The words spoke of a bond, a connection that could not be broken. They spoke of a choice, one that would shape the fate of humanity. And they spoke of him-the Wanderer, the man who had given them everything, only to leave them with nothing but questions.
Liara leaned back in her chair, her sapphire eyes distant. The others would not understand, not yet. They still saw him as their savior, their guide. But she had seen the truth, hidden beneath layers of riddles and half-truths. The journal was not just a record of his thoughts; it was a map, a guide to a future he had already foreseen. And at its heart was a single, inescapable truth: the bond between the Wanderer and humanity was not a gift, but a chain.
She thought of the day he had chosen her, so many centuries ago. She had been young then, her mind sharp but untested, her heart full of dreams. He had appeared to her as a beggar, his eyes ancient and knowing, and he had asked her a simple question: "What do you seek?"
"Knowledge," she had replied without hesitation. "To understand the world, and my place in it."
He had smiled then, a smile that held both warmth and sorrow. "Knowledge is a heavy burden," he had said. "But if it is what you seek, then I shall grant you it."
And he had. He had given her power, wisdom, and time-so much time. But now, as she stared at the runes before her, she wondered if it had all been a test. A test of their worthiness, their resolve, their humanity. And if they failed, what then? Would he abandon them, as the journal suggested? Or would he destroy them, as she feared?
Her hand tightened on the edge of the desk, her nails digging into the wood. She could not let that happen. She would not let that happen. But the cost-the cost was more than she had ever imagined.
The oathblade at her side hummed faintly, its power a constant reminder of the choice she had made-and the choice she still had to make. She rose from the desk, her robes whispering against the stone floor, and stepped into the shadows. Somewhere, deep beneath the temple, the Wanderer slept. And somewhere, deep within her, a spark of doubt flickered.