The loss of his mother's memory left a gaping void in Lior's soul, a phantom limb of emotion that ached with an unbearable emptiness. He stumbled away from the now-stabilized Reality Anchor, clutching his head, the Song of the Void a deafening roar in his mind, mocking his sacrifice. The Echoing City of Veridia, though temporarily saved, felt like a tomb, each crumbling building a monument to what he had lost.
He sank to his knees, the obsidian fragment, his only remaining link to his past, clutched tightly in his hand. Mael. The name echoed in his mind, a whisper of a forgotten self. He was Lior now, the cartographer of worlds, the last guardian of the real. But what was a guardian without a past? What was a protector without memories to protect?
A cold, metallic taste filled his mouth. He was losing himself, piece by agonizing piece. The Memory Quill, his most vital tool, was also his greatest tormentor. He had to find the Wandering Tower, and he had to find it soon, before the Void consumed not just the realms, but his very identity.
He forced himself to his feet, his gaze sweeping the fractured sky. The Reality Anchor, now humming with a steady, reassuring light, provided a subtle clue. Its energy signature, when viewed through his Eye of the Real, pointed towards a specific trajectory, a faint ripple in the fabric of the Void. The Tower was moving, always moving, drawn to the largest concentrations of instability.
He began his trek across the crumbling fragment of Veridia, his senses heightened, his Memory Quill held ready. The Ethereal Guardians, though still present, seemed less aggressive, their forms more diffuse, as if the stabilized Anchor had sapped some of their strength. He used his Veil of Nothingness sparingly, conserving his mental energy, relying more on stealth and the subtle shifts in the Void's currents that only he could perceive.
As he reached the edge of the floating city, he saw it. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer on the horizon, a colossal shadow against the backdrop of swirling nothingness. The Wandering Tower. It was immense, a spiraling fortress of dark, polished stone, its upper reaches piercing the fractured clouds, its base wreathed in arcane energy. It moved with a slow, majestic grace, its presence a gravitational pull on the surrounding fragments of reality.
Relief, sharp and sudden, washed over him, quickly followed by a wave of apprehension. The Tower was guarded, not just by the Void, but by the Arcons themselves – the mage-engineers who had caused the fracture, who had abandoned him.
He traced a path on his worn map, charting the Tower's trajectory. It was moving towards a cluster of smaller, unstable realms, fragments of ancient civilizations that were rapidly dissolving. He had to intercept it.
The journey across the Void was the most perilous yet. He had to use the Memory Quill constantly, drawing temporary bridges between dissolving landmasses, creating fleeting shields against stray bolts of pure nothingness that erupted from the abyss. Each stroke was a gamble, a painful exchange of memory for survival. He lost the scent of his childhood home, the warmth of a forgotten sunbeam, the sound of a lullaby. The Song of the Void was a constant, insidious hum, trying to fill the emptiness in his mind with its own chaotic whispers.
He reached the Tower's outer defenses, a swirling vortex of arcane wards and patrolling Arcane Sentinels – constructs of pure energy, their forms shifting like liquid light. They were designed to repel any intrusion, their detection spells sweeping the surrounding Void with relentless precision.
Lior knew a direct approach was impossible. He needed to find a weakness, a blind spot. He pressed his marked palm against the cold, polished stone of a nearby floating island, activating his Eye of the Real to its fullest extent. He perceived the intricate web of wards, their energy signatures, their subtle fluctuations. He saw the patterns of the Sentinels' patrols, their overlapping detection fields. And he saw a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in the Tower's energy, a momentary disruption in its defenses.
It was a window, a fleeting opportunity. But it would require a precise, dangerous maneuver. He would have to use the Memory Quill to create a momentary breach in the wards, then use his Veil of Nothingness to slip through before the Sentinels reacted. It would be a massive drain, a painful sacrifice.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. He looked at the spiral scar on his palm, then at the fading image of his sister's face, a ghost in his mind. He had to do this. For the realms. For the memories he still had. For the future he was trying to protect. The price of truth, he realized, was often the loss of self. And he was willing to pay it.