The lower vaults of the Keep were older than any living memory. Even the elves, whose lives stretched centuries, knew only whispers of its origin. Carved deep beneath the stone foundations and forgotten over generations, the vaults had remained sealed—until Elen found the sigil buried beneath a crumbling altar.
Althar followed her into the descending passage, the torch in his hand casting long, twitching shadows against the walls. Strange glyphs pulsed faintly in the dark, resisting the light as though shunning the presence of the living.
"This wasn't part of the original Keep," Elen said quietly, her voice echoing in the narrow corridor. "The stone is older, fused by magic—not tool or time. It was made to last."
"Or to be forgotten," Althar murmured.
They reached the end of the stair, where a round stone door—no keyhole, no handle—waited like the sealed mouth of a buried god.
Elen raised a hand, revealing a small shard of obsidian etched with glowing runes.
"Found this wedged into a prayer alcove. It fits," she said.
She pressed it into the hollow center of the door.
Nothing happened.
Then, the stone rippled.
Not moved. Not cracked.
Rippled, as if the material of the world were cloth.
A low hum filled the air. The door began to fold inward like paper, vanishing into the floor in curling fragments.
Beyond was a chamber, dry and silent.
And at its center—hovering above a pedestal of root-wrapped crystal—floated a relic.
A black cube, no larger than a man's fist.
It turned slowly, suspended in air, whispering in a voice that wasn't sound but memory.
Althar's breath caught.
The moment he stepped closer, a sharp pang stabbed his temples—visions flooded his mind.
A tower wreathed in fire.
A battlefield covered in ash.
A man—a king—with eyes like cold embers standing before an ancient tree, its leaves shimmering like stardust.
He had never seen these things.
But he knew them.
They were his.
Fragments of a life before the throne.
Before death.
Before this world.
He staggered back, hand pressed to his head.
"You saw something," Elen said, steadying him.
He nodded, dazed. "I saw... myself. But not here. Another world. Another time. It's showing me what I forgot."
"I think that's what it's for," Elen said. "This isn't just a relic. It's a memory core. A vessel for identities—unfiltered, unedited."
Althar looked at her. "You're saying it stores souls?"
"Not souls," she said. "Names."
The word struck him like thunder.
Names.
The one thing the Executioner erased.
The very weapon that the Empress feared most.
"That's why it was hidden," he muttered. "If she ever found it—"
"She would destroy it. Just like she destroyed the name-forges, the memory-wells, the Librarium at Asven."
Elen nodded solemnly.
Althar stared at the cube.
"What if we could use it?" he asked.
"To do what?" she asked, brows furrowed.
"To remember who we really are. All of us. Everyone she's ever taken," he said, voice rising. "To restore what she erased."
Elen hesitated. "It could work... but using it might alert her. The core's energy is ancient—it doesn't obey modern channels. If she's watching for anomalies..."
Althar stepped forward.
"Then we shield it. You said you were a wardweaver once."
"I was," she said. "But I'll need time. Crystals. Essence stones. A scribe-mage, if we can find one."
"We'll get what you need," Althar said. "Because this changes everything."
Meanwhile, in the Northern Wastes, the Executioner paused mid-step.
The wind stopped.
His faceless head tilted, as though sensing a ripple in the sea of time.
A name had stirred.
Somewhere far away, someone had dared remember.
The Empress's command burned brighter in his mind.
"Silence them."
He vanished.
Back at the Keep, Elen worked tirelessly, sketching sigils onto the chamber floor, the memory core suspended above like a forgotten sun.
Ael entered, drawn by curiosity.
"What is it?" he asked.
Althar looked at him, then at the cube.
"A key," he said. "To who we used to be."
Ael approached it, cautiously.
Then, before anyone could stop him, he reached out.
His fingers brushed the surface.
His eyes went wide.
And then he whispered—so quietly even he didn't understand the word—
"…Mother…"