The moment they stepped into the realm of the Hollow Spire, Sylas and Alira felt a pressure upon their minds—not pain, but a constant whisper of thought, as if the air itself carried memory. The ground beneath their feet was not stone, but something else—smooth, dark, and faintly warm, like obsidian pulsing with life.
They stood at the edge of a wide platform suspended in a void where stars shimmered like rain caught in slow motion. No sun. No moon. Just endless space and the great Spire before them, rising like a spear through reality itself.
Alira moved first, boots silent on the unnatural surface. "It's listening," she whispered.
Sylas followed, his senses sharp. "Or dreaming."
They crossed a narrow bridge without rails, suspended by nothing. At its end, a great door stood open—too tall, too narrow. Symbols scrawled across its arch lit up as they passed, responding to their presence. Ancient runes danced, rearranging themselves.
Inside was silence.
They entered a hall lined with statues—towering beings in cloaks, their faces worn away or never carved. Each held an artifact: a sword, a staff, a book, a key. All turned toward a central dais where a pedestal stood… empty.
Then came the voice.
"At last… the seed returns."
It came from everywhere and nowhere. Male and female. Young and old. It was not speech but thought, pressed directly into their minds.
Alira drew her blade. Sylas held her back.
"We don't mean harm," he said aloud.
The statues groaned as though reacting to his voice. Then, slowly, one of them moved.
It stepped down from its plinth and opened glowing eyes. "You walk a path long sealed. What do you seek, inheritors?"
Sylas hesitated. "The truth. About the Heart. About the world."
"And about yourselves?" the figure asked, stepping into the light.
Its body was shadow wrapped in robes of woven starlight. No face, only presence.
"The Heart is but a fragment of the Spire," it said. "A shard cast down to stir evolution, to test the strength of will. You touched it, and it changed you. You survived it. Few have."
Alira frowned. "What is this place really?"
"The cradle of beginnings. The echo of a forgotten war."
The room trembled, and the walls peeled back like petals. They were no longer in a hall—but suspended in a memory.
Around them bloomed visions of an ancient world. Titans made of light and storm clashing in skies. Beings of flame forging civilizations. Darker entities binding stars into chains.
"The world you know," the voice continued, "was made from ruin. A prison for the broken. You are not the first to seek truth here."
Visions shifted—figures much like Sylas and Alira, standing where they stood now. Some screamed. Some wept. All were changed.
Sylas clenched his fists. "Then what must we do?"
A long silence.
Then the figure pointed toward a staircase rising into the tower's core.
"Climb. Face what came before. And choose."
Alira nodded. "Let's go."
They ascended, the weight of memory pressing harder with every step. Each level was a challenge—rooms where time broke, where reflections came alive, where regrets took shape and fought them.
In one chamber, Alira faced a mirror showing her younger self—angry, uncertain, soaked in blood. In another, Sylas met a shadow made from every decision he'd doubted. They passed each trial, not through strength, but by understanding.
Finally, they reached a great chamber bathed in blue fire.
There, a being waited—a fusion of light and void, chained to a throne of bones.
"I am what remains of the First Seeker," it said. "I reached the top. I failed to choose."
Sylas stepped forward. "Then teach us. Let us finish what you could not."
The being laughed—a sound of sorrow and hope. "Then listen, Children of the Shard. Listen well…"
And the secrets of the Spire began to unfold.