The first thing they felt, upon leaving the chamber of silence behind, was the weight of sound returning slowly, like a river seeping through once-dry fissures. The echo of their own footsteps sounded strange, unfamiliar, and for a moment, Arien and Nyra hesitated, listening to their hearts hammering out a rhythm that was new, yet familiar—the beat of those who have survived absolute absence and now must relearn how to inhabit the world.
Still dizzy from the prior void, they followed a corridor where the silence was not total, but carried a living tension, vibrating between stone and flesh. The weak light from Arien's blade barely touched the irregular contours of the walls, revealing veins of shimmering minerals and dark stains of ancient moisture. The floor, gently sloped, was covered with a viscous layer of silvery moss, muffling every step and making the atmosphere even more dreamlike, as if they were walking on ground between dream and forgetfulness.
Nyra walked a little ahead, but every two or three steps she stopped, hesitant, and slid her palm along the damp stone, feeling the chill pierce her skin like a sudden shock. Her fingers traced the reliefs of the wall, searching for a familiar texture, for something to anchor her to reality, while her wide, dilated eyes explored the dimness for signs—like a child lost in a forest of memories. Sweat glued her hair to her temples, and small tremors ran down her arm, betraying the invisible battle against the sensations and memories that sprang from her own body.
Arien, watching each of her movements, felt a sudden tightness in his chest. The weight of the blade vibrating in his hand seemed to echo the tension in the environment, each pulse from the crystal emitting a sharp, low note that made the water droplets hanging from the ceiling tremble before falling. He saw Nyra paler, her lips trembling, her breath shallow and quick, like someone who has just awakened from a nightmare and still doesn't know if she is truly awake. Her eyes, usually firm, now shone in the blue glow, larger than ever, fixed on a distant point—the expression of someone returning from a dive too deep into the waters of their own mind.
Nyra kept moving forward slowly, as if each step required more than just physical strength, but also courage not to collapse. At times, she seemed almost to stumble over her own sensations, pressing one hand against her chest as if to keep her heart from getting lost in the tumult of what she was feeling. The environment swallowed her, and in her eyes one could see the reflection of a silent inner struggle—the desire not to be swallowed by the labyrinth of her own memories. The silence that once served as a shelter now became oppressive, forcing her to confront, with each step, everything she had always been forced to silence.
With each step, the corridor seemed to narrow, the air growing thicker and denser, almost tangible, and it was upon Nyra that this weight fell most heavily. The smell of moss and decaying roots mixed with a metallic scent, like rain falling on hot stone, amplifying her vulnerability—the heat of her body contrasting with the cold of the stones, sweat running slowly, the sensation of being watched not only by Arien, but by her own past. The sound of their footsteps was absorbed by the living walls, which seemed to breathe with her, letting out small cracks now and then, as if the labyrinth itself wanted to remind her of its existence and demand an ancient tribute.
Still, the world was no longer the same since the absolute silence: each sensation seemed multiplied for Nyra, as if she were feeling not only the matter of the place, but also the boundaries of what she had inherited and what she dared to become. The environment demanded her attention to every detail—the light brushing of cloth, the anxious beating of her own heart trying to impose rhythm on the sensory chaos—and Nyra realized, almost fearfully, that she was crossing not just the corridor, but layers of herself. This crossing, more intimate than physical, was preparing not only Nyra but also Arien at her side for what awaited at the end: not just a new space, but a new confrontation with the roots of her very existence.
Thus, with Nyra fighting at every moment to keep her head up and her gaze steady, side by side and attentive to each other, they left the corridor's penumbra behind. The previous passage still seemed to reverberate through their bodies—the sensation of being squeezed by the walls, compressed by the weight of all the unspoken voices and memories that, like hidden roots, threatened to surface with each new step. Crossing the last threshold, the space suddenly expanded, delivering them to the vastness of an oval chamber, where the air was denser and every breath seemed a preparation for what was to come.
The moment they stepped into the new room, both hesitated. Nyra felt goosebumps, the hairs on her arms standing on end before the stone mirror that dominated the space. The light there was different—filtered through lilac mist winding along the floor, through shadows that seemed to ripple beneath their feet. Arien, alert to her slightest gesture, delicately laid a hand on Nyra's shoulder. The gesture, simple and silent, was more than support: it was a bridge between two inner worlds, an invisible thread that kept them both from getting lost, each in their own solitude.
For an instant, both stopped, their breaths synchronized, listening to their own fear and hope beating in the same rhythm. It was as if all the tension accumulated in that corridor was concentrated in their brief contact—a suspended instant where any movement might unleash tears or courage. The silence surrounding them was at once a burden and a shelter.
— "Do you still feel the weight of the silence?" Arien asked, his voice a whisper, but clear, almost an offering to the space.
Nyra hesitated before answering, as if needing to discover if the voice was still truly hers:
— "It wasn't just silence. It was as if... everything I never said became matter, dense, impossible to carry alone. Did you feel it too?"
Arien nodded, stopping under a translucent stalactite, his eyes fixed on a drop of water about to fall. — "I saw things of mine, but also things of yours. For a moment, it seemed we were made of the same secret."
She smiled, a small, fragile smile, her gaze lowered to the damp floor, reflecting her own doubt:
— "Do you think we ever separate from what we inherit? Or do we just learn not to fight it so much?"
The environment, sensitive to the confession, seemed to change with them. With each step, the shadows deepened, the humidity intensified, the blade's light reflected in spiral patterns on the walls, making everything more intimate and at the same time more unsettling. A cold wind snaked down the side corridor, bringing distant voices, a murmur impossible to decipher. Nyra stopped again, breathing deeply, and looked at Arien, her expression vulnerable, as if needing to confess something:
— "Have you ever felt like an entire story lives inside your chest, ready to swallow who you think you are?"
Arien drew closer, laying a hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly, as if to ensure Nyra would not get lost in that moment:
— "Ever since I lost my village, everything in me is an echo of someone—and sometimes I wonder if I'll ever have a voice that's truly mine."
Nyra took a deep breath, absorbing the answer and feeling it circulate through her own body. — "Maybe no one does. Or maybe a voice needs to be shared to exist."
When they finally approached the polished stone mirror, so ancient that the runes on its surface had lost their sharpness, both felt the solidity of the past pressing against their skin. In the center of the room, the lilac mist seemed to thicken, swirling around their legs and wrapping their ankles, like the memory of all untold stories. Nyra stopped at the threshold, her gaze locked on the mirror. Her eyes, usually intense, now seemed drawn inward, as if contemplating private abysses—and for a moment, it was as if all the echoes of the past demanded an answer.
Arien noticed the tension and gently touched Nyra's elbow, whispering as if afraid to disturb something sacred:
— "If you want me to wait, I'll wait. But I won't leave you alone here."
Nyra closed her eyes for a moment, feeling a wave of gratitude and surprise. — "No one ever waited for me. But if I'm to cross, I want it to be now. With you."
They moved forward together, each step bringing them closer to the mirror and thickening the mist around them. The blade's blue light flickered, as if recognizing something on the other side. Nyra raised her hand, hesitant, fingers trembling a few centimeters from the polished surface. Her reflection appeared distorted, now a child, now an old woman, now a monster—and behind every face, still older faces, eyes of roots and mouths made of dry leaves. A whisper crossed the room, coming from everywhere and nowhere, an ancestral tongue Arien could not understand but felt vibrating in his veins, in his bones, in the root of his soul.
— "Someone is calling me..." Nyra murmured, swallowing hard. — "It's like hearing my mother and all the mothers before her. But the voice... it's mute. It's just absence."
Arien squeezed her hand gently, offering the warmth of his touch as a shield. — "Then let's go together. No one here needs to answer alone."
At that instant, the fragment's light intensified, illuminating the mirror's edges with a golden halo. Nyra, drawn by a force greater than her own will, touched the cold glass. The world spun: the reflected image shattered, each fragment showing a different era, a ritual of exile, a child abandoned in the mist, a woman surrounded by druids chanting in circles as they shed tears of resin. Each scene was a weight thrown onto Nyra, and she felt her knees give way, her eyes filling with an ancient weeping, unable to be released.
Arien, alert, felt the blade vibrate as if suffering alongside her. He stepped forward and, without hesitation, placed his own hand beside hers on the mirror. The moment he touched it, a chill ran through his body. His vision blurred, merging with Nyra's—now, he saw the world through her eyes, and she through his. For a brief second, they were the same lost child, the same ancestral echo suffocated by the silence of lineage.
The chamber shuddered. The mirror came alive, projecting images in the air: Nyra, still a child, being pushed away by her own kin, a dark mark painted on her forehead, eyes filled with tears but a mouth that never cried out. The reflection shifted—Nyra as an adult, facing shadows of roots, trying to speak, but her mouth always sealed by moss and silence. Around her, familiar faces twisted not in anger, but in resignation: it was the fate of her lineage never to speak, never to ask, never to forgive.
Within this vortex of memories, Arien's presence became a thread of light, a warmth that did not burn but wove a bridge between Nyra's pain and the hope of both. He closed his eyes, letting the memory fragment of the Static Flame open within him. The memories of his lost village, of Líara's laughter, of the promise made to his mother and to the fire, all this was shared with Nyra—not as words, but as sensation, color, smell, and pain. He gave her what was most intimate, not to lighten his own burden, but to show that no voice is truly silenced while there is someone to share the weight.
— "I see your pain, Nyra. It doesn't push me away. I recognize you here, even when you can't fully see yourself."
She raised her face, tears running down her cheeks, her voice hoarse:
— "I... I don't know if I can. It was always forbidden... always..."
— "It doesn't have to be perfect. It just has to be yours," Arien replied, firm yet gentle.
The lilac mist dissolved around them, swirling in small eddies like affectionate hands. Nyra felt, for the first time, the weight in her throat loosen. The old echoes began to weaken; the faces that condemned her faded in the mist. She managed, then, to whisper—soft, hoarse, but true:
— "I am not just silence. I am what's left after the silence."
The chamber resonated with the phrase, and the runes on the mirror finally glowed, responding to the gesture. Nyra's reflection now showed not a victim, but someone marked by choices—someone able, even without words, to seal a new fate for herself and for those who came before. Arien, still holding her hand, felt a wave of exhaustion and relief; his memory pulsed, but the bond created was stronger than any pain. He pulled her close, supporting her as both stumbled, like survivors of a dive into the depths of time.
For long moments, they remained there—side by side, before the now-dormant mirror, feeling the pulse of ancient generations dissipate around them, as if at last a cycle of guilt and silence had been broken. The mist cleared, revealing the floor of ancient stones covered with lichen and fine roots, which now, at a touch, seemed less heavy, more alive, as if the very room breathed in relief. Nyra, her face wet with tears, smiled for the first time since entering the labyrinth, and her smile was the image of the impossible made real: a voice that had never been spoken, now whispered among the stones.
Before leaving the chamber, Arien raised the fragment of the Static Flame. The light shone high, as if finally banishing the shadows. Nyra touched her chest, feeling something new—a void left behind, but also a space ready to be filled with new names, new stories. They exchanged one last glance before the mirror; words were no longer needed. Both understood: the crossing would only end when every denied memory could be embraced, when every silence could finally become a voice.
The corridor ahead opened as an invitation. The wind returned, soft, carrying a faint, almost imperceptible song—the song of all who, one day, dared to break the cycle of silence. Nyra and Arien moved on, their steps synchronized, carrying with them not only the promise of what they would become, but the healed inheritance of everything they had learned to listen to in the heart of the labyrinth.