The world vanished the moment Sylas touched the Root.
Not in a violent flash, not in blinding light—but in silence.
The cavern, Alira, the Root—all melted into mist. Then came the pull. Gentle at first, like a tide, then relentless. His mind stretched thin, thoughts unspooling like thread drawn into a loom far beyond his comprehension.
He stood—no, existed—in a space without time. Fragments floated around him. Voices, images, feelings.
The first memory hit like thunder.
A boy in a dark alley, clutching his brother's hand, running from city guards. Rain poured, and boots slammed against cobblestone. His brother stumbled. Fell. Sylas screamed.
Except he hadn't remembered that before.
Another memory—older. Malrik, young, surrounded by other Pact founders, standing in a stone circle under moonlight.
"We bind the truth," said one, his voice rich with conviction. "Not to control the world, but to remember it rightly."
Another memory layered itself atop that: a ritual, a betrayal, Malrik twisting the spell, turning remembrance into erasure.
Sylas gasped. The truth wasn't buried—it was rewritten by the Pact itself. Every generation had bent the Root a little more, trimming memory like gardeners pruning away inconvenient truth.
Then came her.
Alira, standing before the Council years ago, a younger version of herself. She was arguing—furious, righteous—about inconsistencies in the Vault's records.
"No one erases truth unless they're afraid of it!"
They had silenced her. Not violently. Just efficiently.
Back in the now—not that "now" existed here—Sylas could feel the Root testing him. Threading its vines through his thoughts.
Who are you? Why are you here? Will you protect the memory… or shape it?
His mind fought to hold onto what was real.
A voice, familiar, drifted in—Alira's.
"Sylas. Come back."
He opened his eyes.
The cavern returned.
He was on his knees, gasping, sweat soaking his clothes. The Root behind him pulsed faintly, calmer now, as though it had passed judgment.
Alira crouched beside him, hands on his shoulders. "You were gone for hours."
Sylas blinked. "It felt like… lifetimes."
He stood slowly, unsteady.
"I saw it all," he said hoarsely. "The truth. The original Pact. Malrik didn't start the betrayal. The Council did."
Alira's eyes widened. "Then he…"
"He tried to undo it. But the Root was too powerful. It fractured him."
She looked at the memory echoes still floating near the Root—fading now, dissolving into the walls like breath into cold air.
"We have to tell the others," she said. "The Council, the cities… they're building on lies."
Sylas didn't answer. His fingers brushed the journal in his satchel. The pages were now full—cover to cover. Names, dates, deeds. Every erased truth recorded in it now.
"We'll need more than truth," he said finally. "We'll need allies."
Footsteps echoed from the collapsed tunnel behind them.
Three figures emerged—cloaked, armed. Not enemies.
Seekers.
Alira tensed. "They followed us."
The leader lowered his hood. A woman—sharp eyes, greying hair, the mark of an exile on her wrist.
"You survived the Root," she said quietly. "That means you remember what the rest of us forgot."
Sylas didn't speak.
She extended a hand.
"Welcome back, Drevin. The Silent Pact is broken. Now begins the Reckoning."