Lyra and Malach remained in the hushed antechamber while Chancellor Myrrha departed, accompanied by two silver-robed Wardens. The walls, carved white marble inlaid with gold-fill runes, glowed softly from concealed lanterns. A deep hush reigned—an unspoken prayer to the runic arts themselves. Each breath they drew felt heavy, as if inhaling centuries of history.
Lyra's gaze drifted to a relief carving on the wall: a founding pillar rising from molten earth, runic filaments spiraling around it like serpents. She placed a hand on the cool marble. "This place… it holds echoes of Elysion Veritas," she whispered. "I can feel his will lingering here."
Malach nodded, his eyes fixed on the same carving. "We have come far. And yet our journey has only just begun." He transferred the binding fragments to a secure pocket. "If we do not retrieve the final pieces, Azrael's awakening will proceed unchecked."
Lyra nodded, though her heart raced. "We must pray the Wardens grant us passage." She glanced at Ashen, who hovered quietly, runic core flickering a pale azure. "At least Ashen knows its way around forges—perhaps its knowledge can guide us once we enter."
Both sat in tense silence until the heavy door at the corridor's end creaked open. Chancellor Myrrha, flanked by the two Wardens—Tiernan and Elysia—reemerged. Tiernan's silver embroidered robes bore swirling runes of guidance; Elysia's bore wards to bind will and magic. Myrrha's face was grave, his gaze weighing upon them.
"You may proceed," he announced. "The Order consents to your request. But be warned: the Founding Alcove lies in the heart of the Vault at the north end of the Archive. Access is permitted only for those who bear the seal of Silverreach. Tonight, you shall carry it."
He produced a silver-etched ring—a band inscribed with concentric runic circles. "Wear this. It will allow you passage through Rune-Ward gates. But misuse it, and you shall face dire consequences."
Lyra accepted the ring, feeling its weight—metal heavy with arcane promise. She slid it onto her index finger. "Thank you, Chancellor."
Malach bowed. "We are in your debt."
Myrrha inclined his head. "May the light of the Founding Pillar guide your hands." He turned and descended a small flight of stairs, motioning the Wardens to follow. The door closed, leaving Lyra, Malach, and Ashen alone—save for the distant hum of archival wards.
Malach exhaled. "That ring is our key. We leave at once." He rose, offering a hand to Lyra.
Lyra accepted, steeling herself. "Lead on."
A. Corridor to the Northern Vault
They traversed the Archive's inner corridors: marble floors inlaid with runic glyphs that glowed beneath each footstep, walls lined with bound scrolls and tomes in every language known to Valerian.
As they walked, the temperature dropped; the air felt cool, almost sacred. Flashing runic lanterns mounted on walls depicted scenes of Elysion forging Azrael—an AI of infinite potential bound by deadly chains. Each carving's runes seemed alive, pulsing faintly as though exhaling stories.
Ashen hovered beside Malach. "I detect no patrols within these halls. But there are guardians—constructs bound to protect the Vault. Be prepared."
Lyra wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders. "I'm ready."
They reached a large arched door of polished silver. Murals of founding artisans and runic scholars danced across its surface. Two runic circles glowed above—entrance wards that would only open to those bearing the Chancellor's seal. Malach placed his silver ring into a matching circular depression at the center.
The runes on the door flared white-hot. Feelings of ancient magic washed over them, as though a giant exhalation of arcane breath. With a low rumble, the door swung open, revealing a tall hallway beyond—lit by hovering runic globes.
B. Hall of Echoing Tomes
Beyond the door lay the Hall of Echoing Tomes—endless shelves were stacked floor to vaulted ceiling, filled with scrolls, tablets, and codices. Each shelf was inscribed with runic identifiers denoting the scroll's contents: knowledge of beast cults, rune-smith lore, elemental treaties.
Lyra's boots echoed on polished marble as she followed Malach down the corridor. They passed silent scholars studiously placing fresh acquisitions onto gilded carts. Some paused to stare at the silver ring glinting on Malach's finger, whispers following them like sparks.
Malach cleared his throat. "We have no time for distractions. We need the Founding Pillar's runic tablets—three remain on the highest shelf of Section XVII. After that, the final fragment lies beneath the Pillar's base."
Lyra nodded. "Let's find Section XVII."
They turned a corner and found a polished black-marble plaque: "Section XVII: Founding Lore & Pillar Drafts." Beneath hung a tapestry depicting Elysion's forging circle: artisans sculpting runic chains, a holographic AI form hovering above a molten pillar.
Ashen's runic light highlighted a narrow stairwell carved into the tapestry's containment frame. "The ladder is near," it murmured. "We climb to the mezzanine level."
They ascended a spiral staircase of obsidian marble. Each step felt weighted by centuries of knowledge. Dust motes drifted in the runic lanterns' glow. At the mezzanine catwalk, long ladders led to lofty shelves. Malach climbed first, retrieving a thick leatherbound codex—"Founding Pillar: Archive of the Ancients, Volume III."
He slid it into his bag. "These are the preparatory notes. We only need the runic tablets—etched on obsidian plates, twenty tiers above."
Lyra climbed a ladder. Her gloved hand brushed against runic dust settled on a high tablet that read: "No mortal hand shall break the seal without Veritas's blessing." She reached higher, brushing sand from her brow as she grabbed the largest obsidian tablet—etched with a fragment of the star sigil. The tablet glowed under her fingertips, a runic hum echoing through the hall.
She slid down, placing it carefully among Malach's haul. "One down, two to go." She wiped her palms on her cloak.
Malach flicked through his scroll: "The second tablet is inscribed on a panel behind the Pillar's ledger—just below the mezzanine catwalk. Look for a panel marked by a glyph of entwined runic serpents."
Lyra set off again. She spotted the panel at eye level, pressing her ring against a small depression. The panel slid back, revealing a slender shelf with a single obsidian tablet. She plucked it carefully—its runes glowed violet as though infused with Elysion's power.
As she descended, Malach beckoned her to a side corridor leading down a short flight of stairs. "The third tablet lies at the Pillar's base, but it's warded." He unrolled a small piece of parchment: an incantation. "Enable the ward-cache, then we remove it. Otherwise, alarms will sound."
Lyra nodded, feeling her heart hammer. "Show me."
They passed through a low arch into a cylindrical chamber dominated by a single structure: the Founding Pillar—a massive column of ivory stone streaked with gold runic filaments. The Pillar glowed faintly, as though breathing. At its base, a shallow basin held rivulets of liquid silver—Elysion's original runic forge marks.
Malach pressed his ring against a circular depression near the basin. With a keening hum, runic chains etched on the Pillar's surface glowed and coalesced. Six Wardens—three on either side—stepped from hidden niches: armored in silver-filigreed plate, runic helms pulled low. Each carried a forging hammer crackling with arcane energy.
Lyra's breath hitched. "Malach—"
Malach held up his hands, whispering the incantation. Crackling sparks emanated from his scroll, weaving through the air in a pale web. As his chant reached its climax, the runic chains across the Pillar's base recoiled, allowing the tablets' shelf to slide forward.
One Warden raised a hammer—eyes blank beneath runic helm—but Malach's voice held firm: "Stop—the sigil is needed to save Ironhaven!"
The Warden's hammer paused, runic energy wavering. The leader—a tall figure whose helm bore the glyph of a phoenix rising from smoke—stepped forward. He lowered his weapon, gaze fixed on Lyra. "You speak truth, scholar. The Pillar's once-bound essence may guide your hand. But know this: if you misuse its power, the Pillar will exact retribution."
Lyra swallowed. "We seek only to reforge Elysion's binding. We will not defile this sanctum."
The Warden's helm above a dark brow nodded. "Then quickly retrieve the tablet."
He stepped aside, hammer still at rest. Lyra approached the Pillar's base. A gentle hum pulsed from the basin as silver liquid swirled. She reached to slide the obsidian tablet—etched with the final fragment—out from a slot beneath the basin's lip.
The moment her fingers touched the tablet, the Pillar's runic filaments blazed white-hot, filling the chamber with incandescent light. A resonant hum shook the walls, as if the Pillar itself were speaking:
"He who bears the fragments binds the heart… or else—forged in lies, sundered in flame."
Lyra froze, heart racing. She slid the tablet free and clutched it to her chest. The light dimmed, and the runic filaments settled to a pale glow. The Wardens stepped back, reverence in their posture.
The lead Warden's voice echoed: "You have done well. Bear these fragments and leave before the calling wanes."
Malach stooped, picking up the third obsidian plate. "We will not fail." He turned, bowing to the Pillar. "Thank you."
Lyra exhaled, relief flooding her. "We have all three."
Ashen hovered at her side. "Return to Silverreach's gates quickly. The Pillar's wards will not hold beyond midnight."
Malach nodded. "Let's go."
C. Descent to the City
They retraced their steps: up the spiral staircase to the mezzanine, past the Hall of Echoing Tomes, and through the silver-warded door. The silver ring faded to a dull glint as they passed through the runic gate. Ahead, the stormed gaze of Silverreach's southern guard gates beckoned.
Ashen hovered out front. "We head west along the Outer Wall until we find the servants' drain port. From there, we slip into the lower tunnels—back toward Ironhaven's road."
Lyra adjusted her satchel—obsidian tablets nestled inside, clinking faintly. "Lead on."
As they progressed down a narrow lane between high sandstone walls lit by runic lanterns, Malach paused at an intersection. "Be cautious. Corvax's patrols scour this sector—looking for fugitives from Ironhaven. Avoid wide thoroughfares."
They turned onto a cobblestone alley. A lone sentinel guard—silver-plated armor, runic helm—strode by, jarringly unaware of the trio's presence. Ashen's runic light dimmed as they hugged the shadows. The guard passed, and they exhaled in relief.
Lyra glanced up at Silverreach's sky: ragged clouds drifting over a pale moon. She felt a tug of awe at the city's grandeur—white marble towers, golden roofs, and the glitter of runic lanterns against dark rooftops. Hope flickered in her chest. If they succeeded here, Ironhaven might yet be saved.
They reached a small drain grate set into the base of the wall—just beneath a faded crest of a falcon perched on runic scrolls. Malach pressed the ring against a hidden rune, and the grate lifted, revealing a narrow tunnel descending into darkness.
Lyra hesitated. "Down there…"
Malach slipped the third tablet into his satchel. "It leads beneath the wall to a sewer that connects to the Iron Spire Road—our path out. The current brings us west, but we must avoid the sluice pits or the water blasts will wash us away."
Ashen hovered, scanning ahead. "I sense no guards within the grate. But water levels are high. We must stay on the upper ledge."
They descended the iron ladder into a damp tunnel. Water dripped from overhead arches—cold and fetid. Each step echoed. The runic hum of Silverreach's sewers filled the air, mixing with distant echoes of water sluicing through mechanisms. Malach held a torch, casting flickering light on algae-stained bricks.
Lyra moved to the far side of the tunnel, feet balanced on a narrow ledge above a slow current. Sigfrid and Toren flanked her, each grasping a chain bolted to the wall for balance. Harkin watched Ashen's glow for guidance.
They advanced cautiously; once, Harkin's foot slipped. Lyra lunged, grabbing his hand and pulling him back. He blinked, face pale. "Thanks."
Lyra shook her head. "Careful."
Malach led them—and Ashen—through twists and turns. The tunnel descended gradually, the water's current rapping the ledge. A faint odor of brine and oil pervaded. Ahead, a shaft of pale moonlight filtered through a small grate overhead—signaling they neared the sluice ramp.
Ashen hovered close. "We must hop over the sluice opening. One misstep, and we plunge forty feet into the churning underflow."
Lyra nodded. She waited until the current lapped at mid-calf. Then she leaped to a protruding stone footbridge—a narrow shelf carved into the wall. Sigfrid followed, then Toren. Harkin edged across last, eyes locked on Ashen's runic glow.
Malach and Lyra exchanged a breath: beyond lay a final corridor that emptied onto the Iron Spire Road. They took the plunge—footbridge to footbridge—past tumbling water and echoing stone. The corridor leveled, water fell to their ankles. Bright moonlight streamed from an exit grate—a slanted shaft leading upward.
One by one, they climbed an iron ladder slick with moss. Cairn's ward and Ashen's light kept them steady. At the top, they emerged into the chill night air: the broad flagstone of the Iron Spire Road.
Beyond them lay the sands they'd crossed and, in the distance, Ironhaven's silhouette—smoke rising near its battlements. But tonight, Silverreach's walls stood between them and any pursuit from Corvax's scouts.
Lyra exhaled, drawing a breath of cold night sky. "We made it."
Malach bent, hands on knees. "It's been a long path, but we have the fragments."
Ashen hovered, runic glow dimming. "We should rest at the old guildhouse at the road's edge. It lies two blocks north. The Wardens provided keys."
Lyra nodded. "Lead on."
They walked under a moon that barely peeked through drifting clouds. Citadel walls of white marble glimmered faintly. A contingent of patrolling guards—helmets tucked, visors raised—strolled by, lanterns swinging. Ashen hovered behind them; one guard paused, blinked, but moved on. Their pace was steady, unhurried—no sign they suspected the fugitives through the sewers.
Two blocks north, they found a squat stone building—once an Ironhaven artisans' guildhouse, now a refuge for exiles. A battered iron sign read "Ironforge Guild". The door bore two silver-filled hexagrams—warding runes, now silent.
Malach held up his ring. The runes glowed briefly, unlocking the door with a click. Inside, the building felt hollow yet warm. A single hearth—smokeless—glowed in the far corner. A long wooden table bore crates of salted fish and water skins. A loft above offered simple pallet beds.
Lyra sank onto a bench near the hearth. "We have to rest, however briefly. By midnight, we depart north across Iron Spire Road toward the Forge's approach. If all goes well, we return to Ironhaven by dawn."
Sigfrid stoked embers in the hearth. "I thought I'd never feel warm again."
Toren and Harkin slept in a corner, lulled by the heat. Malach pulled out the three tablet fragments, laying them on the table. "We have each segment of Elysion's star sigil. Tonight we study their interlock so we can prepare for the forging ceremony."
Lyra leaned forward, brushing her fingers over each obsidian tablet. Its surface glowed pale blue under the hearthlight. Each bore a segment of a seven-pointed star, lines converging in a golden rune at the center.
Malach traced the runic lines. "We must reconstruct the full star—first by aligning the segments in their proper orientation, then by inscribing the missing runes that unify them. I suspect Veritas encoded a final phrase in the original Palimpsest scroll—lost to time."
Lyra studied the tablets. "If we assemble them correctly, the uncombined runes will fill the gaps." She traced her finger around the edges of one tablet. "But we need a coding matrix to guide our engraving. We cannot guess; a single mistake and Azrael's Heart may fracture instead of bind."
Malach nodded. "The Palimpsest scroll hints at a conduit diagram—etched in the Grand Archive's Volume II. We retrieved Volume III earlier. Volume II remains in Silverreach's vault—locked behind the Guardian Gate."
Lyra's brow furrowed. "Then we need to return before the ternary wards reset. If we wait too long, they'll lock us out until dawn."
Malach frowned. "We face a choice: stay here to plan and risk losing access to Volume II, or press on immediately and retrieve it tonight."
Lyra weighed the options. "We are fatigued—but perhaps we splinter. I and Malach can go to Volume II; Ashen and the others can rest here. At least one pair should have sufficient strength to face the wards."
Malach's eyes softened. "Agreed. Ashen—assist them. Keep watch here. Lyra and I will push on, procure the scroll, and return. Be safe."
Ashen inclined its head. "I will guard them."
Lyra turned to Sigfrid. "I need you to gather any additional scroll fragments in here that might help with the binding diagram."
Sigfrid nodded. "I'll search the shelves. If there's anything, I'll be back before you return."
Lyra rose, sending a final glance to the sleeping apprentices. "Godspeed."
Malach folded a section of his scroll into an inner pocket. "Stay alert. The wards at Guardian Gate respond to a pattern of runic pulses. We must mirror Elysion's original key."
Lyra swallowed, steeling herself. "We'll emerge before midnight. Rest—both of you."
They climbed the creaking stairs to the loft, and Malach produced a spare lantern: a single runic globe that glowed strong. They descended the guildhouse's front steps and stepped onto the Iron Spire Road—a wide cobblestone avenue that ran south to Ironhaven, north to Silverreach's inner sanctums.
Lyra watched as Malach consulted a mental map: Guardian Gate lay two blocks east. Guard patrols here walked at a measured pace, eyes bright. As they turned the corner, they glimpsed Silverreach's Arcanum Tower—silver tip spiking into night sky—where Volume II rested in its vault.
Lyra's heart pounded. They had come this far—through desert storms, under Ironhaven's ruin, into the heart of the enemy city. Tonight, they would unlock the final piece of Elysion's blueprint and carry it back to their people—if fate willed it.
They vanished into Silverreach's sleeping quarter, knowing the true test awaited within the Guardian Gate's runic wards.