# 5
The path toward the Weeping Crag was not a trail, but a testament. Every step Thalia and Kaelen took felt as though they were treading upon buried echoes. They no longer heard the forest's unified song, but fragmented screams—shattered voices, explosions, barked commands, and the dying groans of men looping endlessly like a scratched record.
"It's starting," Kaelen whispered, pressing his fingers to his temples. His face had gone pale. The bracelets Elara had given them pulsed with a faint golden light around their wrists, acting as stabilizers, but the mental pressure was still overwhelming. "We're inside the echo of the Battle of the Crimson Lake now. Or rather… the place where its resonance is most deeply embedded in the world."
The air shimmered with restrained energy. The trees here were unlike any others in Gloomwald—they were frozen mid-action. One leaned unnaturally, as if recoiling from something unseen. Another was cracked and scorched on only one side, though its bark remained intact. Even the stones scattered across the ground looked as though they had been caught in the middle of being hurled.
Thalia felt an urge to touch one of the frozen trees, to listen to its story—but a deeper instinct warned her away. Here, echoes were not locked memories; they were traps. Touching one could drag her into the vortex of the entire battle.
"Don't," Kaelen warned, as if reading her thoughts. "The echoes here are active. They can… attach."
They continued forward, guided by the mental map Elara had given them—not visual directions, but sensations. Turn right when the pressure in their ears sharpened into a high-pitched whine. Turn left when the scent of wet earth and metal filled their lungs. It was like dancing with ghosts.
At last, the vegetation thinned. They reached the edge of a massive cliff overlooking a natural amphitheater.
This was the Weeping Crag.
Circular stone walls towered around a sunken rocky basin at its center. But it wasn't the landscape that stole Thalia's breath.
All around the basin stood shadows. Not human, not solid specters, but blurred silhouettes made of mist and flickering light—dozens, perhaps hundreds. They stood in silence, all facing the center of the Crag. From them poured an unceasing resonance—not as sound, but as raw emotion: piercing fear, profound confusion, blazing anger, and above all, a paralyzing sense of betrayal.
"Fallen soldiers," Kaelen breathed, his voice filled with reverence and horror. "They're still here. Trapped in the moment of their deaths."
At the center of the basin lay a large flat stone, like an altar. Upon it rested weathered bones clad in rotting uniforms. Not one skeleton, but several—entwined in chaotic collapse, as if they had fallen together.
"This is it," Thalia said, her voice nearly drowned by the hiss of echoes. "This is where we open Vance's cylinder."
Descending into the Crag felt like walking through a curtain of emotion. With every step, a new sensation washed over them—the despair of a young soldier writing to his mother, the cold resolve of a sergeant ordering his men to hold the line, the helpless confusion as they realized the bullets were coming from behind.
Kaelen trembled violently. "I—I can't block it. It's too much."
"Focus on me," Thalia said, gripping his hand. "Focus on my voice. We're almost there."
They moved carefully past the shadows, which seemed unaware of their presence. When they reached the altar stone, the pressure peaked. Thalia felt as though her skull might split open.
With shaking hands, Kaelen placed Vance's metal cylinder atop the stone, beside the bones. The wax seal still looked intact, despite the years.
"Should we…?" Kaelen hesitated.
Thalia nodded. She drew a small blade from her arcanist's kit and, with a single motion, broke the seal.
There was no explosion of light. No dramatic sound.
Only a sudden release of pressure, as if the entire Crag exhaled a breath it had been holding for fifteen years.
Then, from within the cylinder, a single echo rose—strong and clear, overpowering all others. It was the voice of a man, weary yet forged of iron resolve.
Lieutenant Elias Vance.
> "If you are hearing this, then either God or fate has guided you here. My name is Elias Vance, Lieutenant of the 7th Border Guard. What I record is not a battle report, but a confession of betrayal.
> We were not sent to the Crimson Lake to fight monsters from Gloomwald. We were sent to guard it. Near this place lies a site—an ancient fissure in the world where something from the Founding Age is sealed. They called it the Oldest Covenant—an agreement between the First King of Aethelun and those he named the Celestial Chorus. We were its gatekeepers.
> Then the order came. Not from our field commander, but through a sealed channel bearing a sigil known only to the innermost circle of the Chamber of Whispers. The order read: 'The seal must be reinforced. All living evidence of the Covenant's true nature must be erased. Casualties are acceptable.'
> We believed it meant increased security. We were wrong. At dawn on the third day, Elite Luminai forces attacked our own positions. They did not slay monsters—they slaughtered us. One by one, my men fell, confused as allies fired upon them. Only a handful of us escaped into Gloomwald.
> I survived because Sergeant Arlon shoved me into a ravine before a spellbolt struck him. I heard him scream as he died: 'He broke the promise! He broke them all!' I do not know who 'he' was. But I know this—the Battle of the Crimson Lake was no tragedy. It was a purge. Those in power decided the truth of the Oldest Covenant was too dangerous, and its guardians… were liabilities.
> I hid this record, and my oath to spread the truth. But Gloomwald—and those in power—made it impossible for me to leave. So I entrusted it to the land. To the tree. To the echoes of this place.
> To whoever finds this: be warned. This truth has already killed an entire unit. It killed my friends. If you pursue it, it will kill you as well. But if you do not… then this betrayal will remain a whisper, and we will die a second time.
> End the whisper. Make it a scream."
The voice faded.
The silence that followed was different—a silence of reverence. Around them, the soldiers' shadows began to dissolve. One by one, they vanished, as if the message had finally been delivered and they could rest at last.
Yet amid that aching relief, Thalia's mind raced.
The Oldest Covenant.
The seal.
The purge.
And Sergeant Arlon's dying words: He broke the promise.
"Who is 'he'?" Kaelen murmured, voicing her thoughts. "The First King? Or… someone still alive?"
Thalia remembered the carving on her locket: a phoenix with broken wings—Melpomene's sigil.
"They say the phoenix broke its wings choosing to save its child from the fire," Isolde had once said.
Save her.
Not from flames—but from truth?
"Someone in power within the Chamber ordered the massacre," Th involving her voice trembling. "Fifteen years ago… who held the highest authority in the Chamber? It wasn't Melpomene yet—she was newly appointed as Grand Chancellor. But—"
"But your mother, Althea, was a genius Echo-Whisperer," Kaelen finished, eyes widening. "And she was investigating the Silent Heart. What if… what if she discovered something? Not about the seal—but about the massacre itself?"
Another piece snapped into place.
"The bronze medal," Thalia whispered. "I saw coordinated betrayal in its echo. That wasn't a battle. It was an execution."
They stared at one another, the same horror reflected in their eyes.
"So your mother uncovered that the Chamber itself ordered the Crimson Lake purge to protect the secret of the Oldest Covenant," Kaelen said slowly. "And when she got too close—"
"The Chamber, or someone within it, silenced her," Thalia finished, nausea rising. "But Melpomene witnessed it. And she concluded the truth was too dangerous. That it was better to lock everything away—art, history, even her sister's memory—than allow the truth to destroy the Chamber… or all of Aethelgard."
The motive was darker and more complex than mere "protecting stability." This was about covering up a colossal crime. And Melpomene—who may not have ordered the original purge—had chosen to uphold the lie to preserve the institution, or perhaps to shield her sister's memory from an even uglier truth.
Suddenly, a rustle at the edge of the Crag made them both jump.
It wasn't Felwin.
Master Roland emerged from between the rocks, ragged and gasping, as though he had run all the way from Lumenspire. His face held not the fury of a traitor, but sheer terror.
"Thalia!" he shouted hoarsely. "You have to go—NOW!"
"Roland?" Thalia stepped forward, confused. "How did you—"
"No time! She knows you're here. She felt the disturbance in the echoes when you opened the cylinder!" Roland scrambled down into the Crag. "You don't understand. Opening Vance's record was like lighting a beacon. She's coming herself!"
"She? Melpomene?" Kaelen asked, bracing himself.
"Not alone," Roland replied, eyes wild. "She's bringing the Psionic Inquisitors. Not pawns like Felwin—these are trained to… sever echoes. To sever listeners."
He reached them and seized Thalia's arm. "I was wrong. I thought hiding you would protect you. But lies fester. And now you've reached the core. You must flee deeper into Gloomwald. Find the Silent Concordat."
"The cult? You're insane!" Kaelen protested.
"They're the only ones who might protect you now! They know the truth of the Oldest Covenant. They'll see you—Althea's daughter—and they might… they might help." Roland thrust something into Thalia's hand: a small memory crystal pulsing with soft light. "This. Everything I know about your mother's final research. About what she sought in the Silent Heart. Take it. And RUN!"
Too late.
The air at the top of the Crag shimmered. Golden light—cold, pure, unlike the Chamber's blue—washed across the basin.
And there stood Grand Chancellor Melpomene.
She did not look angry.
She looked bone-weary.
Around her stood three figures in plain robes and featureless metal masks—the Inquisitors. No weapons were visible, yet the air around them vibrated with restrained psionic force.
Her gaze found Thalia. Then Roland. Then the open cylinder.
"Roland," she said, her voice flat and empty. "After all this. After our oaths."
"The oath was wrong, Melpomene!" Roland shouted, stepping in front of Thalia. "It was built on blood! Althea died trying to tell the truth!"
"My sister's name is not yours to speak," Melpomene replied coldly. "She died because she refused to listen. Because she believed truth mattered more than lives." Her eyes settled on Thalia. "It seems that flaw is hereditary."
"Did the Chamber order the Crimson Lake purge?" Thalia cried, holding back tears of rage and grief. "Is that the broken covenant?"
Melpomene sighed, as though bearing an unbearable weight. "You see in absolutes, child. 'Good' and 'evil.' Reality is never so simple. The Battle of the Crimson Lake was… a tragic act of awareness. To save many, some had to be sacrificed. To preserve a kingdom's peace, a truth that would destroy it had to be buried."
"SO YOU KNEW!" Thalia screamed. "You knew—and you covered it up!"
"I continued it," Melpomene snapped, emotion finally breaking through—grief, rage, crushing guilt. "Because the alternative was war. Chaos. The destruction of everything we built! Do you think I didn't consider it? Do you think I don't see my sister's face every night, asking whether my choice was right?"
She composed herself, sealing her fragility behind authority. "The choice was made. Now another must be." She gestured to the Inquisitors. "Take the apprentice. And the Memory Leech. They will be brought to the Tower of Remembrance, where their echoes will be… corrected."
The Inquisitors advanced.
Roland raised his hands. "I won't let you."
"You already did," Melpomene replied softly. "For fifteen years." She lifted her hand—three rings gleaming with golden light. "Now sleep."
An invisible wave struck Roland. His eyes widened, then emptied. He collapsed like a puppet with severed strings.
"ROLAND!" Thalia cried, lunging forward, but Kaelen dragged her back.
"We can't fight this! RUN!"
They turned and fled toward a narrow fissure in the Crag's wall.
Behind them, Melpomene's calm command echoed:
"Do not kill them. Take them alive. We need what they know."
A bolt of psionic energy tore past Thalia's head, shattering the stone ahead.
They slipped into the fissure, darkness swallowing them. They ran until their lungs burned, driven by pure terror.
Behind them, at the Weeping Crag, Melpomene stood atop the altar stone, gazing at Vance's empty cylinder and Roland's motionless body. She lifted the cylinder and, with a subtle pulse from her rings, crushed it into metallic dust.
"Truth is a double-edged sword," she murmured to the empty air—or perhaps to her sister's ghost. "And unfortunately, my niece… you are holding the wrong edge."
She turned to the Inquisitors. "Clean this place. And find them."
Deep within the dark tunnels, Thalia and Kaelen kept running—lit only by the memory crystal in Thalia's hand, pulsing softly: a map to deeper truth, and perhaps to the power needed to stand against a Chancellor.