Date: February 12, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
The greenish glow of the "Stability Node" enveloped the knights in a soft, almost maternal warmth. Here, inside the protective circuit of the ancient runes, the distorted space of the Pyramid of Scales retreated, returning the world to its familiar proportions. The process of regrowth was agonizing: Kaedan felt his bones ache, and his joints click dryly, lengthening millimeter by minute. It was like the deep, pulling pain of growth everyone experiences in childhood, only accelerated a hundredfold.
Iskon sat at the very edge of the glowing disc, leaning his back against the cold obsidian pedestal. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't asleep. The young man listened to his inner essence slowly filling his expanding channels.
"Weakness..." this word pulsed in Iskon's consciousness in time with his quickened pulse. "This whole expedition is a series of manifestations of weakness. Kaedan, Bert, Olaf... they depend on this place, on this random island of calm. They rejoice in regaining their size like children rejoice in a new toy."
Iskon felt a burning pain in his elbows and knees—the price for the Scaling Spirit he had used while shrunken. His power was surgically precise, but it required perfect control, and now his Vessel was like a dried-up well. However, no one in the detachment was meant to notice this. To them, he had to remain the Order's flawless blade.
"Grak sees Kaedan as a future pillar," Iskon opened one eye slightly, observing Kaedan checking the integrity of his greaves. "He is tough, no denying that. He has that dull, animal endurance that allows him to stand under the blows of Pillars. But defense alone is not enough. My 'Better World' will not be a world of those who simply know how to endure pain. It will be a world of those who lead. Who dictate terms to reality itself."
Iskon remembered the kitchen knife in his hands many years ago. He understood then that the size of a weapon didn't matter if your will was capable of changing it. In this Temple, he felt closer than ever to his true goal. The Pyramid of Scales was not a trap, but his personal training ground.
Bert and Olaf sat a little way off, discussing the recent fight with the centipede in low voices. They glanced at Iskon with superstitious respect but didn't dare approach. Kaedan, whose height was almost back to normal, came and sat opposite the leader of their small group.
"Your hands are shaking, Iskon," Kaedan said quietly. It wasn't a reproach, more a simple observation.
Iskon instantly clenched his fists, hiding his hands under the folds of his cloak. His gaze, cold and sharp, bored into Kaedan's face. "Your Armor is covered in cracks, Kaedan. You should worry about your own durability, not my coordination."
"We're in this together," Kaedan ignored the barb. "The Temple didn't separate us by accident. It's tearing us from our usual roles. There's no Grak here to cover us with his Herald power. Only us. If you burn out before we find a way out, we'll all remain tiny skeletons here."
Iskon smirked crookedly. There was no mirth in that smirk. "Survival isn't a collective effort, Kaedan. It's the ability of each individual component not to break under pressure. My Spirit requires many resources, that's true. But as long as I can hold my sword, I'll walk ahead. Not because I want to protect you, but because it's the shortest path to the goal."
"Your goal is the Relic?" Kaedan asked.
"My goal is to become one who will never again depend on chance," Iskon stood up, and although his movements were still constrained by the pain in his joints, he held himself perfectly straight. "The green light is beginning to dim. This place of power is closing. The Temple thinks we've rested enough."
The young man looked deeper into the corridor, which beyond the boundary of the "Node" was beginning to distort again, turning into a ghostly labyrinth. "Kaedan thinks I'm a proud man," Iskon thought, checking the sharpness of his blade. "But he doesn't understand. My pride is the only thing I have left when everything else was burned away. If I allow myself to admit fatigue, I'll become like them. A grain of sand in the wind."
His inner energy was barely flickering, but he forced it to gather into one point, ready for a new burst. He felt the Pyramid was preparing something grand for them. This place didn't like stability; it craved movement, struggle, and change of form.
"Get up," Iskon threw at Bert and Olaf. "Our right to normal size is ending. Soon we'll have to prove again that we are worthy to occupy space in this realm."
Kaedan stood beside him, and his stone vambraces materialized on his arms with a soft rustle. He saw Iskon was at his limit, but understood that he would never accept help. They had to pass through the heart of the Pyramid, bound not only by the Temple's anomalies but also by their own pride.
At that moment, beyond the boundary of the green light, the first, barely audible sound was heard—the scrape of stone on stone, in which one sensed an ancient, hungry life. The Temple of True Equilibrium was awakening for its final chord.