Valos had barely managed to lean on the staff when the world around him began to shake. A dull, drawn-out rumble, like the death rattle of a giant beast, rolled through the hall. Stones rained down from the ceiling, and cracks, hissing and red-hot, spread across the walls of black obsidian.
— The level is collapsing! — Corvus shouted, grabbing Valos by the arm. — The staff! It was what was holding all this together!
Valos gripped the shaft, and in response, a wave of images crashed into his mind — not his own memories, but an echo left by the artifact. He saw...
*... An elderly priest, Father Elian, bent over a parchment, his face illuminated by the ecstasy of divine revelation. With a trembling hand, he was writing down the words appearing to him in a vision: the name of the future Apostle, a simple townsman into whose soul the Will of Arche-Annos itself would be placed. The mission — to awaken Gemellos.*
*The next morning, Father Elian summoned the people to the church. His voice trembled with reverent terror as he raised a prayer and called upon that very man — a blacksmith named Kael — to step forward and stand before the great fresco depicting Arche-Annos. The people held their breath. Kael, confused and frightened, took a step.*
*And then he was pierced by a pillar of blinding, pure light emanating directly from the fresco. The air exploded with thunder. The people fell to their knees, covering their faces. When the light dissipated, Kael was transformed. On his back were radiant wings of condensed light, above his head was a halo of white flame, and at the nape of his neck were a pair of elegant, backward-curving dragon horns. His eyes burned with cold, inhuman determination. With a cry that mixed pain and triumphant fury, he soared into the air, shattered the stone fresco, and rushed away to the west, toward the sleeping continent of Gemellos. And the next morning, all of Father Elian's writings were found reduced to ashes, as if touched by sacred fire.*
Valos reeled back, tearing himself from the grip of the vision. The ceiling above them cracked with a deafening roar.
— HOLD ON! — Corvus's bellow brought him back to reality.
A massive basalt block crashed down where they had stood a second ago. The entire hall had become a deadly trap. Cracks in the floor yawned open, spewing molten rock.
— Back! To the exit! — Corvus commanded, pushing Valos forward and using his sword to deflect falling debris.
The squad rushed toward the tunnel, which now seemed fragile and unreliable. Every step brought a new tremor, every breath was filled with dust and fear. They ran, stumbling, across the shaking floor, while behind them, the sixth level of the Nagas' dungeon died, burying its ancient secrets beneath the rubble.
— The stairs! — someone shouted ahead.
Valos, still weak but driven by adrenaline and Corvus's grip, saw a winding stone spiral leading upward. They scrambled up it like madmen. The stone cracked and crumbled beneath their feet. As they crossed the threshold of the fifth level, the stairs collapsed into the abyss with a deafening roar, taking the path back with them.
They stood, leaning against the walls, breathing heavily. The air of the fifth level, which had recently seemed stale and dead, was now sweeter than the freshest breeze.
— Are you alright? — Valos exhaled.
Corvus nodded silently, unable to utter a word. From below, from the black hole where the stairs had been, came a distant rumble — a funeral knell for the level that no longer existed.
Corvus turned to Valos. — Are... are you alright, my lord?
Valos looked at the staff in his hand. The crystal still pulsed gently with warm light. He nodded, feeling goosebumps run down his spine — not from fear, but from realization. They had not simply obtained a weapon. They had touched the history of creation itself, the divine design, and the price paid by those who fulfilled it.
— Forward. To the surface. We have the mithril. We have the staff. That's enough.
Corvus shot him a quick glance, noticing how Valos's fingers were gripping the artifact's shaft convulsively. Something had happened there, in the fiery hall. Something greater than merely a trial.
— My lord? — he asked quietly, stepping closer.
— Not now, Corvus, — Valos cut him off.
— What happened stays between these walls. We found the weapon against the undead. That's enough for the report. Understood?
— Then let's go. The necromancer won't wait for us to rest.
Their return journey began. Valos walked, leaning on the staff, but his shoulders were tense, and his back was straight.
He glanced furtively at Corvus. The swordsman walked beside him, vigilant as always. Someday, perhaps, Valos would be able to tell him. But not now.