The pressure in the chamber thickened, heavy as ocean water before a storm. Matrim stood just a breath away from the massive ancient doors, sweat beading on his brow despite the cold. The air smelled of old dust, cracked stone, and magic that had been sealed too long.

  Narianna was beside him, her crimson eyes reflecting the faint red glow that seeped through the gap in the door. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. The tension threading through her body was the same coiling inside him.

  They both heard it now—not just the hum of corrupted leyline energy, but a deeper resonance… like something breathing on the other side of the stone. Something aware.

  The stone under their boots trembled, just slightly. A faint pulse—one that matched Matrim’s heartbeat too closely to ignore.

  “The Court woke it,” he said, voice rough. “But it’s responding to us.”

  Narianna slowly nodded. “Or to you.”

  Matrim’s throat tightened. “If it knows me… why?”

  No answer came from her. Only the low groan of the door shifting another inch open.

  The whisper returned—not loud, not even truly spoken. It resonated in his mind, elusive and wordless. But this time, it wasn’t coaxing.

  It was expectant.

  “Matrim…” Narianna’s voice cut through the pressure building between his ears. “Step back.”

  But his feet wouldn’t move.

  The energy from the gate had grown stronger with each breath. It wasn’t corrupted like the nexus above—it was clean, sharp, ancient. And it was calling him by presence, not name. He could feel something beneath his skin responding, deep in the marrow. A knowing.

  A connection.

  His hand lifted slowly, almost unconsciously, toward the seam in the door.

  The stone responded. A small pulse of light ran along the carvings in the doorframe. Spirals that had long since dimmed began to glow—gold threaded with silver, and beneath it, something darker pulsing faintly in rhythm.

  Narianna’s voice was more urgent now. “Matrim—step back.”

  He wrenched his hand away, breath sharp. The pulse broke. The spirals dimmed slightly.

  He staggered a step back, clutching his chest.

  “I wasn’t trying to open it,” he gasped. “It… it wanted to open for me.”

  Narianna moved to him quickly, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. “It almost did.”

  The door trembled again, but slower this time—as if testing its weight against its own confinement.

  “They knew this was here,” Matrim said. “The Court. They knew about this gate and they’ve been trying to find someone who could open it.”

  “And they found you,” Narianna replied grimly.

  Matrim opened his mouth, but another sound rose from behind them—a faint mechanical hiss. A vibration rippled through the floor like a heartbeat returning to a corpse.

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  Narianna tensed, sword already in her hand.

  “What was that?”

  Matrim turned toward the tunnel behind them.

  From the walls, old runes flickered to life—pale gold, elegant, not part of the Court’s corruption. They followed the shape of the tunnel, illuminating slowly, one after another.

  “It’s not them,” he said. “It’s… something else. Something waking up.”

  Narianna looked around the chamber, her voice quiet but tense. “We triggered something.”

  “Or someone else did,” Matrim replied.

  Far above them, unseen and unknown, the echo of Serellia’s activation rippled through the leylines, reaching the lowest levels of Silvermoon’s foundation. It had begun.

  The air felt sharper now. The pressure that had been so suffocating just moments ago had changed. It was still heavy, but not hostile. Watchful.

  Matrim turned back toward the gate.

  It wasn’t pushing open anymore.

  It was waiting.

  The stone beneath Matrim’s boots thrummed with a deep, sonorous pulse—low and steady, like the ancient heartbeat of a slumbering giant. The gate, now silent for several long heartbeats, responded again with a low groan that vibrated through the air and settled deep in their bones.

  Matrim stared at the glowing seam, unable to tear his eyes away.

  Then, with a sound like a breath held for centuries finally released, the gate opened a fraction more—just enough.

  A single gust of cold air rushed out from the darkness within. Not the natural chill of a forgotten chamber, but something older, untouched by time. The air carried with it the faint scent of burned ozone and petrichor, as though a storm had passed through a graveyard of stone and bone.

  Narianna stepped in front of Matrim, blade raised, her other hand glowing faintly with defensive enchantment.

  “Matrim,” she said without looking back, “stay behind me.”

  He didn’t argue.

  From the crack in the gate, mist began to spill forth—slow at first, then pouring like breath from a dying god’s lungs. It twisted and curled, unnaturally dark yet shimmering at the edges with faint violet hues, like oil on water.

  Matrim’s heart hammered. The mist didn’t move like smoke or vapor. It moved with purpose. It saw them.

  The mist pooled across the floor and slowly coalesced into a shape.

  It wasn’t solid—at least, not fully. More a suggestion of form than flesh, like someone had drawn the outline of a person in smoke and filled it with memory.

  A humanoid silhouette emerged from the mist, rising taller than Matrim, draped in shifting shadows. Its "face" was a mask of lightless obsidian, smooth and unbroken, with lines that pulsed faintly in rhythm with the nexus above.

  Then it spoke—not with a voice, but with thought pressed directly into their minds.

  You have come again.

  Narianna flinched but did not retreat. “What are you?”

  The being tilted its head, mist drifting around its shoulders like tattered robes in a storm.

  I am the first echo of what was sealed. The memory of a gate that should not have been opened.

  Matrim’s skin crawled. “What lies beyond this door?”

  The echo turned toward him. Matrim felt the pressure intensify—as if the entity was peering through his soul, weighing him, measuring not just his power, but his intention.

  Your blood remembers. Your will has not yet chosen. The gate stirs because it knows you.

  Matrim’s breath caught.

  “What does it want with him?” Narianna asked sharply, stepping closer, blade still raised.

  Not what. When. The echo’s form seemed to ripple at the word.

  He has stepped into the current of memory. Of fate. The same current that drowned cities and silenced gods.

  Matrim’s voice shook. “Why me?”

  The echo gave no answer.

  Instead, its head turned slowly, as if listening to something distant—something below even this chamber. The air shifted. The floor trembled again.

  Then, the echo turned to Narianna.

  You would stand before the flood. You are of the Vigil. The Veil still binds your oath. But even oaths drown in time.

  Narianna’s jaw clenched. “You’re not getting past this chamber.”

  The echo was still for a moment. Then it extended a hand, palm up. The mist gathered above it and formed a single image—a vision of Silvermoon, fractured by fault lines of burning red, its spires crumbling, sky torn open, ley lines unraveling like thread.

  If the gate is opened without a guide, this is what becomes of your city.

  The image faded. The mist retracted.

  Choose.

  And just like that, the echo began to dissipate, its form unraveling into whirling mist once more. The doors groaned—but this time, they did not open further. They waited.

  Narianna exhaled, blade still raised. “That wasn’t a warning.”

  “No,” Matrim said slowly, heart pounding. “That was an invitation.”

  They stood in silence as the chamber quieted again, and the door returned to stillness—its hunger momentarily sated.

  But something had changed. The gate knew them now.

  And it was waiting for Matrim to make a choice.