The night was moonless, and the mist lay thick as Liora approached the entrance to the Sanctum of Echoes. The ancient archway yawned like a mouth in the cliffside, the stone worn smooth by centuries of wind and whispered prayers.
She paused at the threshold, fingers tracing the runes carved into the keystone—glyphs of remembrance and binding. These wards were older than the city itself, remnants of the first Mage-Lords who had tamed the restless magic of Lioren.
Steeling herself, she stepped inside.
The air was cool and damp, filled with the scent of earth and old incense. Torches flickered in iron brackets, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The passageway twisted down into the earth, each step echoing with the voices of the past.
In the Sanctum, magic was heavy in the air—a place of memory, where the lines between past and present blurred. Every inch of stone was inscribed with sigils of memory, their meanings lost to all but the Seers.
At the heart of the chamber lay a wide pool of black water, still as glass. The pool was said to reflect not your face, but your soul—and in that reflection, the truth could be found.
Liora knelt at the water's edge, letting her fingers skim the surface. For a moment, she saw not her own reflection, but the face of her grandmother—wise and kind, her eyes dark with warning. She blinked, and the vision was gone.
A soft voice echoed through the darkness. "Beautiful, isn't it?"
She rose swiftly, shadows coiling at her fingertips. Aric stepped from the gloom, his hood lowered, revealing sharp features and eyes that gleamed like midnight stars.
"I didn't expect to see you so soon," he said, his smile a curve of secrets.
"I came for answers," Liora replied evenly. "Not games."
He stepped closer, the light catching the faint scar on his cheek. "The Shadowheart seeks the Shard of Nerys," he said softly. "A fragment of an ancient god's heart—power beyond imagining."
She narrowed her gaze. "And you?"
Aric's smile faded. "I seek the same—before they can twist it to their will. The Shard can awaken the city's sleeping magic, or it can devour it. It depends on the hand that holds it."
His words sent a shiver through her. The sleeping magic of Lioren… she had always felt it in the stones, the restless sigh of something deeper.
"Why tell me this?" she asked. "Why trust me?"
"Because you're not like the others," he said, his voice low and intent. "You weave shadows, but your heart is your own. And because we share an enemy."
A flicker of something passed between them—a connection, fragile and dangerous.
Before she could answer, movement in the shadows drew her attention. Figures emerged from the darkness, their faces hidden behind bone-white masks. The cultists of the Shadowheart—robes of deepest black, embroidered with crimson threads.
They moved in a circle around the pool, their voices low and rhythmic—a chant older than the city's founding. The air thickened, the water's surface rippling with power.
Aric stepped back, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of the blade at his hip—a runeblade, its edge shimmering faintly with runes of warding and severing.
Liora's own magic pulsed at her fingertips, shadows ready to leap.
A figure stepped forward from the cultists—the Priest of the Shadowheart, his mask fashioned into the visage of a skull crowned with antlers. His voice was a dry whisper. "The Shard of Nerys will awaken the sleeping heart of the city. And with it, the old gods shall rise."
The cultists' chant rose, the air crackling with raw magic. The pool began to glow, threads of silver and black twisting in its depths.
Aric's voice was urgent. "We can't let them finish the ritual. If the Shard awakens here, it will bind itself to the city's soul."
Liora nodded, and with a flick of her fingers, the shadows leapt from her skin—coiling and striking like serpents. The cultists staggered, their chant faltering.
Aric moved like a blade of light, his runeblade singing through the gloom. The runes flared with each strike, cutting through the cult's wards as though they were paper.
But the Priest only raised his hands, and the air thickened, pressing down like iron. A binding field—a prison of magic that crushed breath and will alike.
Liora gasped, her vision swimming. She drew deeper on her power, calling the shadows not just from the room but from the city itself—from the alleys and spires, the secret places where darkness had always dwelled.
The shadows roared in her veins, a tide of night that swept through the chamber, shattering the binding field.
She stumbled forward, and Aric caught her arm, his eyes wide. "You're drawing too much," he said hoarsely. "It could consume you."
She gritted her teeth. "Then let it."
With a final surge of will, she wove the shadows into a net that wrapped around the Priest, binding him in a cocoon of darkness.
The cultists fell silent, their leader trapped. The glow in the pool flickered and died, the ancient power retreating like a sigh.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Aric sheathed his blade, his gaze steady on hers. "You're stronger than you know," he said quietly. "But power like that… it always comes with a cost."
She looked at the pool, at the faint glimmer of the Shard still sleeping in its depths. "Then let it cost me," she said softly. "The city is worth it."