The last murmur of the mist faded, but its bitter taste still permeated the air.
Vaemor Xhaelarys was the first to advance, his face hardened, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
The terrain shifted, leaving behind the oppressive humidity to open up onto a dark plain, where the cracked ground exhaled an uneven heat that rose in waves, distorting the vision.
It wasn't a natural heat: each gust carried with it a metallic scent and an imperceptible whisper, as if the stones were trying to speak.
Aerys Qhaedros bent down, touching a crevice that exhaled a faint reddish vapor.
"This... isn't volcanic," he murmured. "It's ancient magic, sealed here since before the Doom."
Maekor Dravion, more pragmatic, drew his sword.
"Magic or not, I don't like it breathing beneath my feet."
With each step, the ground seemed to lengthen. The plain was endless, and yet the shapes of the fifth tower appeared and disappeared in the distance, as if unwilling to be reached.
Zaryon Velquarys frowned.
"The tower is moving... or we are being moved."
Vaemor clenched his jaw.
"It's not the tower... it's the illusion. Something here distorts our sense of space."
The group began to notice a second phenomenon: voices.
First, a distant murmur, then clearer words, as if someone familiar were speaking in their ear.
Kaelyth Thalmyx stopped abruptly.
"I heard my mother..." he said in a broken whisper. "But my mother died years ago."
Rhaedor Vorys took his arm, firm.
"Don't look back. It's a trick."
As they moved forward, the voices became more personal, touching intimate memories and open wounds.
Daenyr Vhaely, who had remained silent, stopped when she heard her own name spoken in the voice of an old weapons master.
But when she turned her head, she found only a tall figure, made of shadows, which crumbled to dust with the first blink.
The heat beneath her feet began to intensify. In certain places, the ground gave way, revealing narrow chasms where an orange glow beat like a heart.
Maekor almost fell into one, following an illusion of cool water.
Vaemor caught him at the last moment.
"Here, the tower needs no guardians," she said. "The path itself decides who deserves to reach it."
Hours passed in this uncertain advance. Their steps grew heavier, not only from physical exhaustion, but from growing distrust.
At one point, Zaryon claimed to see the tower only a hundred meters away and broke into a run, but when he reached it, he found himself back where they had started.
A perfect circle.
It was then that Aerys, observing the pattern of cracks in the ground, noticed something.
"The fissures form runes... if we follow the correct line, perhaps we can break the loop."
Guided by him, they began to advance, following an irregular pattern of rocks and crevices, ignoring voices and visions.
The earth protested with tremors and gusts of hot air, as if the place knew its deception was failing.
Finally, after what seemed like a full day's progress, the plain began to rise.
A black hill stood out against a murky sky, and above it... the dark, sharp silhouette of the fifth tower.
It wasn't far away, but a final current of burning air, heavy with ash, rose to hide it from view.
Vaemor stopped, watching as the shadows on the hill seemed to move of their own accord.
"We've found it," he said gravely. "But this last stretch... will be no easier than the last."
And so, with the tower barely visible through the burning fog, the group prepared for the final assault.