The silence grew heavier with every step as Arien and Nyra moved through the subterranean forest, as if the earth itself was sucking up all sound until only the muffled whisper of their breathing remained. The ground no longer displayed the soft spirals of earlier regions. Now, the roots looked like exposed veins pulsing beneath the earth, and dried leaves covered the path—but none crumbled at their touch, as if even forgetting was forbidden in that place.
—"Do you feel that?" Nyra whispered, her tone hoarse and full of reverence, as if she were speaking in a temple. "There's more here than memory. It's as if every memory refuses to die."
Arien nodded, tense. The cold from the roots crept up his ankles, and the light of the crystal embedded in his blade seemed dimmer, almost shrinking in the face of that living darkness. It was as if even the static flame knew it was treading ancient, dangerous ground. Both of them remained alert, ready to react at the slightest sign of threat, the environment pressing on every muscle and thought.
Mist crawled over the ground, hiding treacherous holes and small dips from view. A branch snapped somewhere in the distance. Nyra immediately raised her hand, signaling absolute silence. She spoke more with her eyes than with words: "Here, every decision is observed."
Suddenly, a root moved beneath Arien's foot, coiling around his ankle just enough to test his reaction. His heart raced; he nearly raised his weapon by reflex. Nyra quickly moved to his side, gripping his arm. "Easy. It's testing. It only bites those who truly hesitate. Show respect."
They continued upward along a bare stone slope, where the vegetation thinned and the path seemed carved by ancient rituals. The carpet of leaves was dense, old—each step produced a muted crackle, not of rot, but of something preserved by time. Nyra bent down and picked up a leaf between her fingers, studying its black veins like runes. "Every leaf here holds a story that refused to die." She released the leaf, which fell heavily, almost vibrating before settling, as if reluctant to be forgotten.
The plateau appeared before them, wrapped in milky fog. In the center stood a colossal tree, an ancient with a hollow trunk so wide that three people could pass through side by side. Its bark was covered in spirals and faded inscriptions, layers upon layers of ages of pain, power, and mourning. The branches rose beyond the reach of light, vanishing into the cave ceiling. Roots formed a circle around its base, like sentinels guarding the sanctuary.
The air there was dense, different—a deep scent of burning incense, earth, dried blood, and something mineral, as if some primal pain rested there. Arien felt his chest tighten, his breathing grow heavy, as if each breath drew in centuries of sorrow.
At the base of the tree, half-hidden by shadows and roots, a figure rose, hunched and almost indistinguishable from the gnarled bark. The skin looked like polished wood, but was split by white and red lines that pulsed, revealing a faint internal glow, somewhere between amber and spent flame. The eyes, when they opened, were deep and empty, but within them glimmered embers dimmed by time.
The Guardian of the Dead Leaves spoke without moving his lips, his voice coming from all directions, like the echo of all unfulfilled promises.
—"Two bearers of remembrance. One marked by the flame. The other, by exile. Have you come to plant... or to harvest?"
Arien sought courage in Nyra's eyes. She raised her chin, her gaze steady: "We've come to listen. To understand." Arien added, his voice thick with emotion: "And to carry what was left to us. Even if it's heavy."
The guardian opened his long, twisted arms, and the roots parted, revealing a dark opening beneath the tree trunk.
—"Then descend. Beneath me live the memories that refused to be forgotten. What can no longer speak... only bleeds."
Nyra nodded and led the way, Arien following. The passage was damp, narrow. The walls radiated heat, and at every touch, whispers echoed—voices of ancient wanderers, forgotten prayers, small private tragedies.
The descent grew steep. Arien slipped on a slick root, catching himself on a living wall. At the touch, a wave of images flooded his mind—a child's cry, the face of his mother vanishing in smoke, the heat of fire burning away what could not be erased. For a moment he felt invaded, but pressed on, guided by Nyra's firm hand.
The tunnel ended in a circular chamber. Leaves hung from the walls, held by living fibers, like scrolls suspended in time. The floor was smooth, etched with spiraling inscriptions. In the center, a stone table awaited, its deep grooves glowing with a muted red, as if thirsty for the next offering.
Nyra paused, running her fingers over the altar.
—"These leaves... are fragments of pure memory. When someone dies and is forgotten, this is where their memory rests."
Arien approached, still weighed down by visions, and touched one of the hanging leaves. A whirlwind of images invaded his senses: an anonymous warrior dying alone, a mother waiting for a son who would never return, a field covered in bodies, every name already lost. He staggered back, his breath faltering.
Nyra caught him by the shoulders.
—"That's why the rites of Nostraïl use no words. Only silence is true before pain." Her voice was soft, but full of an undeniable truth.
With a solemn gesture, Nyra took from a leather pouch the ember fragment they had carried from the previous ritual. She placed it in the central groove of the table. The altar shone, and a pale light climbed the carvings, making the leaves begin to tremble.
From the shadows on the wall, a figure of stitched leaves and broken branches detached, gliding forward. Its eyes shone with the reflection of everything that had been forgotten there—it was the young Guardian, a living memory of a rejected past, forged from everything no one dared to tell.
The Guardian extended a long, twisted hand to Arien. Nyra, now at his side, whispered, "Don't hesitate. Here, fear feeds forgetting."
Arien grasped the guardian's hand and felt his arm pulled against the stone table. A leaf detached from above and stuck to his skin. The contact was cold, but soon became fire, burning through memories that weren't his—and some that were, but he'd rather not relive.
The Guardian's voice echoed in a double tone, as if two generations spoke together. "You carry a memory that is not yours. A flame that burns where there was no place for it. Do you wish to return it... or let it grow?"
Arien struggled for breath and replied, eyes shining with tears.
—"I want to understand why it chose me." The leaf caught fire painlessly, drawing a bright red spiral on his arm.
Nyra watched the symbol appear on his skin.
—"She recognized you." The guardian inclined his head, almost as a blessing. "She remembers. Now you must remember, too."
Suddenly, the leaves in the chamber began to detach, one by one. Each leaf that touched the floor released words, phrases, oaths, and names. The air filled with ancestral voices, muffled cries, confessions of guilt and longing.
Nyra walked to a living tapestry of hanging leaves, touching the vegetal fabric. The leaves vibrated, and a scene formed: two ancient peoples confronting each other, one wielding spears of living resin, the other manipulating fire that did not burn. It was an ancient cycle of loss, sacrifice, and transformation.
—"Is this the birth of the Static Flame?" Arien murmured, fascinated and haunted.
Nyra shook her head, eyes fixed on the scene. "Or perhaps the moment when the flame became memory. Here, everything returns—in pain, or in teaching."
A muffled rumble reverberated through the floor. Trunks began to shift, opening a wide crack in the stone. From it emerged shadows, spectral forms made of pain, rage, and loss. Memories manifested as creatures—specters bearing the faces of everything that had been forgotten or denied.
One of the shadows lunged at Arien, who instinctively raised his blade. The crystal flared, and the specter recoiled, dissolving into cold mist, but soon another shadow took its place, advancing in silence, eyes full of accusation.
—"We cannot defeat them. Only cross," Nyra said, her voice steady despite her fear. She touched the ground and made roots sprout, which coiled around the shadows' feet, opening a path. But as she tried to pass, a shadow clung to Nyra's ankle, whispering her name in a thousand voices.
Arien rushed to help, his blade slicing through the shadow's arm. The specter vanished with a dry scream. "We won't lose ourselves here. We promised never to forget. We are more than grief."
The journey through the field of shadows was a test of memory and courage. Every step cost a memory: a scent of childhood, the sound of a lost voice, the feeling of sun on his face. The shadows tried to grab their ankles, wrists, hair—cold, sticky hands trying to drag them down, to the bottom of the well of forgetting.
At the hardest moment, the elder Guardian reappeared, now clad in living armor of woven leaves, glassy eyes reflecting everyone Arien had ever lost. "If memory is all that remains... what will you do when it turns against you?"
Arien dropped to his knees, overwhelmed by the images flooding him—Líara, Khron, his mother, every face tangled with loss and promise. Nyra, trembling too, took his hand. "Pain isn't the end. It's only the end for those who give up remembering."
Arien forced himself to rise, legs shaking but voice steady. "I will keep remembering. Even if it hurts. I will not be a prisoner of forgetting. I'd rather bear the pain than be empty."
The Guardian smiled, and for the first time seemed serene. From the treetop, a thick root descended in a spiral, enveloping them both. The root gently lifted them up through the hollow trunk, returning them to the surface, where the light of the world of the living seemed dimmer, but more real.
At the top of the trunk, under a sky filtered by twisted branches, a golden leaf danced down through the air, settling softly at Arien and Nyra's feet. Nyra, with a tired smile, pointed to the leaf: "It's the invitation. For the last rite in this part of the forest."
Arien picked up the golden leaf, feeling its paradoxical weight—light as hope, but dense as everything they had faced. "Then let's go. We didn't come this far to remember halfway. Now, we can't turn back."