The descent ended without warning.
One moment they were falling through the Crucible of Echoes, weightless and hollow, and the next their boots struck the cavern floor with a dull, final thud. The darkness swallowed the sound fast, like it didn't want to remember them. Above, the obsidian mirror sealed shut, reflecting only the faint silver glow leaking from Lyra's amulet and the tight, restless tension burning inside Alaric. (2•2 / 4•2)
The echoes followed them down.
Not words anymore. Not voices. Just the aftertaste of something ancient, like a breath held too long and finally let go. Then even that faded. Silence pressed in—thick, heavy, wrong.
At the center of the chamber, the Chalice of Illumination stood unchanged. But what lived inside it had become something else entirely.
The mist was gone.
In its place burned a single ember.
The Cleansing Flame.
It pulsed slowly, radiating a purity so sharp it almost hurt to look at. The air around it shimmered, bending like heat over stone. Lyra felt it hum through her bones, steady and alive, like a heartbeat that didn't belong to any one person but to Havenwood itself.
Above it, the Eye of Aethel remained open.
Watching.
Its golden surface still carried the reflection it had shown them moments ago—the Tree of Whispers, ancient and sacred, now strangled by obsidian vines. Emerald fluid dripped like poisoned sap from its branches. At the base of the tree stood a shadowed figure, unmoving. Waiting. (4•2)
Lyra's throat tightened.
"A betrayal," she whispered, the word barely strong enough to exist in the silence. Her eyes didn't leave the Eye. "But whose?" (4•2)
Lord Gareth placed his hand on the edge of the chalice. The silver light painted his face in sharp lines, older than before. Tired. Heavy with things he hadn't said yet.
"The Devourer is patient," he said quietly. "It doesn't only break minds. It poisons roots." His fingers curled slightly. "It has reached for the Tree of Whispers itself. The heart of Havenwood. If it can twist the source, everything connected to it will rot slowly." (4•2)
Alaric stepped closer to the Cleansing Flame. Heat brushed his skin, gentle but firm, like a warning that could also be a promise. He held his hand out, stopping just short of touching it.
"The Tree is bound to the Sunstone," he said. His voice sounded steadier than he felt. The emerald haze that once haunted him was gone, but the memory of it still scratched at his thoughts. "Its strength flows through the land. Through people. If the Tree falls… what good is the Flame?" (4•2)
Gareth looked up at the Eye, then back at Alaric. "What you saw is not fate. It's a path. One the Devourer is trying very hard to force." He gestured at the walls, where faint reflections of themselves shimmered and warped. "The Crucible shows truth stripped of comfort. It reveals method. The vines are bindings. The emerald is corruption wearing the shape of life." (4•2)
Lyra moved toward one of the obsidian walls. Ancient runes glowed beneath her fingers as she traced them, silver light responding to her touch.
"The Watchers built this place to see lies clearly," she said softly. Even when the truth breaks you. "To protect Havenwood from threats that don't come with claws or armies." (2•2 / 4•2)
"Yes," Gareth replied. "And from something worse." His jaw tightened. "From betrayal."
The word settled deep.
"The old stories," Gareth continued, "they speak of a final wound. Not struck by an enemy, but by a hand sworn to protect. A guardian who turns. A familiar face." (4•2)
Alaric felt cold spread through his chest.
"A familiar face?" he asked. "Who?" (4•2)
The Eye of Aethel pulsed.
Once.Twice.
The image sharpened.
The shadow at the base of the Tree shifted slightly. The emerald cloak caught the light, its folds unmistakable now. The posture. The height. The way the figure stood like it owned the ground beneath it.
Recognition hit Alaric like a blade.
His stomach dropped.
"No," he whispered. "It can't be." (4•2)
The figure lifted one hand.
Gnarled. Twisted. The same kind of hand that had reached from the portal before. It pressed against one of the obsidian vines.
The vine throbbed.
Emerald light surged down its length, sinking into the Tree's roots. The Tree of Whispers shuddered. Its branches twisted in silent agony, leaves dissolving into ash-like fragments that never reached the ground.
The Crucible itself seemed to warp, the reflections bending, screaming without sound.
Lyra staggered back, clutching her chest. I can feel it, she thought. It hurts… like losing a memory you didn't know was yours.
"The betrayal is already happening," Gareth said. His voice carried a strange weight now. Not fear. Something darker. "The Devourer has found its instrument." (4•2)
Alaric turned to him sharply. "Then we don't stand here talking," he snapped. "We take the Flame to the Tree. Now." (4•2)
Gareth's eyes flicked to the Cleansing Flame. The ember burned brighter, almost aggressive, as if responding to Alaric's urgency.
"Yes," Gareth agreed. "It must reach the Tree before the corruption settles fully." He paused. Just a breath too long. "There may not be a second chance." (4•2)
Something in his tone made Lyra uneasy.
Alaric looked back at the Eye.
The image shifted again.
The shadowed figure stepped closer to the Tree. The emerald cloak parted slightly.
And the face was revealed.
Alaric's world cracked.
It was Lord Gareth.
The same sharp features. The same scar along the brow. But his expression was empty. Cold. His eyes burned emerald green, glowing with a cruel intelligence that did not belong to him.
"No," Alaric screamed.
The sound tore through the chamber, echoing endlessly. He stumbled back, heart pounding, bile rising in his throat. "No—this is a trick. A lie." (4•2)
The Gareth in the reflection looked up.
And smiled.
Not kindly. Not sadly.
Triumphant.
Lyra turned slowly toward the real Gareth standing beside them. Her hands shook. "Gareth…?" she whispered.
He didn't answer.
The Cleansing Flame flared violently.
The Eye of Aethel locked onto Alaric, the reflection solidifying—Gareth in emerald, binding the Tree with obsidian vines, his hand resting against its bark like a lover's touch.
The Devourer's laughter rolled silently through the Crucible.
And in that moment, Alaric understood the worst truth of all—
The guide he trusted was already gone.
And Havenwood was running out of time.