The emerald clarity of the Weeping Grove did not last long. As the Ember Spark Company followed Sissik beyond the restored aquifer, the forest began to change. The vibrant, living greens of the Elder-Vines faded into a sickly, translucent white. These were the "Ghost-Woods," a region where the trees had been drained of their Echo so thoroughly that they remained only as hollow, calcified shells. The air was no longer humid; it was dry and static-heavy, smelling of old parchment and cold iron.
"We are entering the shadow of the First Temple," Sissik whispered, his bone-staff clicking rhythmically against the brittle ground. "The Silent King does not build with stone and mortar. He builds with silence. He folds the Echo of a place until it no longer exists in our world."
In the center of a clearing stood a structure that defied the natural geometry of the forest. It was a ziggurat of polished obsidian, its edges so sharp they seemed to cut the air around them. There were no doors, no windows, only a series of shifting, interlocking plates of dark metal. Around the base of the temple, the ground was littered with the remains of forest creatures—birds, small deer, and even a few Lizardfolk scouts—all of them frozen in poses of absolute stillness, their bodies turned to grey ash but their forms perfectly preserved.
"Wait," Pip hissed, his goggles whirring with such speed they emitted a high-pitched whine. He hopped off Korg's shoulder and scampered toward the perimeter. "Don't move a single muscle. This isn't just a temple; it's a localized vacuum-field. The King has set an 'Anti-Dragon' perimeter."
"What does that mean, Pip?" Kaelen asked, his right arm—now a blend of iron, jade, and violet filigree—twitching with a sympathetic vibration.
"It means it's tuned to the exact frequency of a Calamity-bond," Pip explained, kneeling to inspect a series of copper wires buried just beneath the white dust. "If you step over this line, Kaelen, the field will try to pull the 'Weight' out of your arm and use it to power the temple's internal defenses. It would turn your own strength into the hammer that crushes your skull."
"A COWARD'S WEAPON," Ignis rumbled, his voice low and vibrating with a deep, ancestral hatred. "THEY FEAR THE CINDER, SO THEY TRY TO MAKE IT SUFFOCATE ITSELF. DO NOT LET THE TINY ONE TOUCH THE COPPER, ECHO. IT IS BAIT."
"Pip, get back!" Kaelen shouted.
The gnome froze. He looked closer at the copper wire. It wasn't a wire at all; it was a vein of pressurized mana, coiled like a spring. If he had cut it, the release of pressure would have triggered a chain reaction.
"He's right," Pip breathed, sweat beading on his forehead. "The traps are layered. It's a 'Nested Paradox.' The first trap invites you to disarm it, but the act of disarming is what triggers the second. This isn't just craftsmanship; this is malice."
"Then how do we get in?" Ria asked, her spear held low. She looked at the obsidian walls. "If Kaelen can't step forward, and we can't disarm the traps, we're stuck."
"We don't go in through the bottom," Kaelen said, his kaleidoscopically emerald eyes fixing on the top of the ziggurat. "Sissik, you said the King folds the Echo, right? If he folds it, there must be a 'crease'—a point where the reality of the forest meets the reality of the temple."
Sissik nodded, his frills flaring. "The apex. That is where the pressure is highest, and where the veil is thinnest."
"Korg, I need a throw," Kaelen commanded.
The half-orc grinned, cracking his knuckles. "I thought you'd never ask. Get over here, you heavy-metal brat."
Korg planted his heels, gripping Kaelen by the waist. Kaelen focused his internal Echo, not on "Expansion" or "Inversion," but on the Weight he had learned from the Iron-Mines. He made himself dense, a singular point of concentrated mass. Korg roared, his muscles bulging as he swung Kaelen in a massive arc, launching him toward the top of the obsidian temple.
As Kaelen flew through the air, the "Anti-Dragon" field screamed. He felt a horrific pulling sensation, as if his iron arm were being dragged toward the ground by a giant magnet. But because he was in the air, the field had no leverage. He slammed into the apex of the ziggurat, his jade-scaled hand punching deep into the obsidian.
The temple groaned. A shockwave of violet light erupted from the point of impact, rippling down the sides of the ziggurat. The interlocking plates of the temple began to shift and grind, trying to reset themselves, but Kaelen didn't let go. He reached deep into the "crease" of the temple's Echo.
"I see it!" Kaelen roared. "Pip! The third gear! It's in the ceiling!"
From below, Pip launched a mechanical bolt from his crossbow. The bolt was tipped with a "Neutralizing Resin" he had brewed in Oakhaven. It struck the shifting plates just as they were about to crush Kaelen's arm. The resin hardened instantly, jamming the mechanism.
The obsidian walls of the temple suddenly folded inward, not like stone, but like a complex piece of origami. The "Anti-Dragon" field collapsed with a sound like a thunderclap, and the Ember Spark rushed forward into the heart of the structure.
Inside, the temple was hollow, filled with a swirling mist of violet and grey. In the center, floating above a pool of liquid mercury, was a relic of the Old World: the Scepter of the Unspoken. It was a staff of white bone, wrapped in silver wire, and topped with a heart-shaped ruby that pulsed with a dark, rhythmic light.
"The source of the silence," Elara whispered, her voice trembling. "If we take it, the Ghost-Woods might recover. But the King... he'll know."
"He already knows," a voice whispered.
It didn't come from the room. It came from the scepter itself. A projection of a man appeared above the mercury pool—a figure in grey robes, his face hidden behind a mask of polished silver.
"The Ember Spark," the projection said, its voice a perfect, chilling monotone. "You have played your part well, Ash-Walker. You have cleared the rot I planted, you have fed your dragon, and you have brought yourself to my door. You are the perfect vessel for the next stage of the Calamity."
"I'm not a vessel for anyone," Kaelen growled, his emerald eyes burning.
"We shall see," the Silent King said. "The scepter is yours. Take it. It is the key to the Second Temple. But remember: every time you feed the dragon, you are merely sharpening the knife that will eventually be used to cut the world's throat."
The projection vanished. The scepter fell from the air, its ruby light dimming to a steady, patient thrum.
Kaelen walked forward and picked up the scepter. As his iron-jade hand touched the silver wire, he felt a jolt of pure, cold information. He saw maps of the forest, the location of five more temples, and a vision of a world turned to grey ash, ruled by a King who never spoke.
"He's baiting us," Ria said, stepping up beside him. "He wants us to find the other temples."
"Then we'll find them," Kaelen said, his voice hard. He looked at his friends—the scout, the mage, the cook, the artificer, and the druid. "But we aren't going to play his game. We're going to break the board."
As they stepped out of the folding temple, the Ghost-Woods were already starting to change. A single, green sprout pushed through the white dust at Kaelen's feet. The "One-Week" clock was still silent, replaced by a sense of purpose.
The Ember Spark had their first relic. The professional rivalry with the Lilies was now a war for the fate of the Borderlands.