34. Archer #2
Towering so high the head jamb disappears into the mist above, is a door. Made of thick slate, it is covered with lichen and an array of carvings that are cut deep into its facade. It is a door built not for mortals, not for Azkari, but for giants.
Against its grandeur we are mere insects.
“Are we supposed to knock?” Dropping her arms from where she’s folded them over her chest, Saige steps forward with a closed fist—
My hand shoots out, just as the ground beneath her gives way.
“Shit!” she shouts, sinking into what moments before looked like solid ground.
“I’ve got you.” Gripping her arm, I attempt to haul her out of the sinking sand, but it holds on, sucking her down into its treacherous trap.
“Doesn’t feel like it,” Saige shoots back. “Feels like it’s going to swallow me—"
“Fucking Eryx,” I grunt, tightening my grip. “Don’t struggle so much, it’ll only take you faster.”
“Aren’t you Azkari meant to be strong?” she bites back, but her limbs stop flailing.
“We are. And so is Azkari magic.”
Saige sinks deeper, dragging me towards the cloying mixture. “Maybe it’s time you used some then—”
Black flames roar to life at the fingertips of my spare hand and I aim them right for the sinking sand, hoping that heat might loosen its grip. The liquid trap begins to bubble violently, spitting out clumps of wet sand, all the while dragging Saige deeper into its maw—
Suddenly, the taut grip releases, and Saige is flying towards me. I’m sent stumbling backwards and she lands on top of me, the ground solid beneath us.
Panting, her body is flush with mine, her hands on my chest as she blows a strand of loose hair out of her face and meets my gaze. “Took you long enough.” Then she rolls off me and dusts herself off, squinting at the carvings on the door.
“What are these verses here?” she calls over her shoulder. “They’re written in different scripts all over the door, languages I don’t understand.”
I groan as I get to my feet and approach the mosaics. “This is the ancient tongue of the Weave.” I point to a flourishing scrawl etched into the curvature of each alive. “It is the language of the Eternal Triad and their priestesses.”
“You’re a student of languages?” Saige jolts as the ground shifts again, destabilizing around us. I can feel the solid earth beneath our feet begin to soften. “What about this?” She gestures hurriedly to markings that are much sharper in design.
“Thaelindor,” I tell her, my skin prickling as a gust of wind picks up. “It’s adapted from the ancient tongue, spoken by select Azkari—usually royalty or noble courtiers. This here is the common tongue of Lorevael.”
“Believe it or not, that one I do know,” she replies dryly, before her eyes fall to a far more distinct pattern of characters carved into the stone. I watch as she traces her fingertips over the carvings—strange symbols and jagged lines, a shiver raking down my spine.
“That is Eztherian.” I keep my voice devoid of emotion, but there’s an edge there. “It’s the language of Morzanmyre—or it was. It’s an old tongue, a hundred regional dialects broken down and forged into something new, something poisonous. There are few who still speak it.”
She wipes her palms on her thighs. “Do you? Speak it?”
The intensity of the wind increases, sweeping the disturbed sand into a blinding cloud that obscures the writing on the door.
“Remind me to kill Daemos,” I mutter, before I speak his words into the gale to still its plight.
The stinging whirlpool of sand ceases, and my hands following the path Saige’s have just made across the strange scrolling patterns.
“You stand before the Temple of Truth,” I read, suddenly hoarse, “where vulnerability can be as powerful as armor. Ask three truths of your partner and give three in return. The temple knows all and will take magic by force if it is not given willingly.”
“Why?” Saige asks suddenly. “Why was this place chosen to house the most dangerous artifact in Azkari history? Do your princes really think some quicksand and poisonous air is going to stop the likes of Malevron getting his hands on it?”
I let my hands drift over the elaborate depiction of Caedrith—the god of the underworld.
The Unweaver, she’s commonly called, is beautiful, in a terrifying way.
Unlike Thaedra, the Weaver, who creates new possibilities and wove the Azkari race herself, Caedrith collects frayed threads from the Weave, responsible for the gentle dissolution of magic back into its raw essence.
“The surviving princes didn’t choose it because of their abilities or access to magical traps.
They chose it because the temple itself can only be opened with the one thing that Malevron could never understand: truth.
To access the treasures within the Temple of Truth, you must enter it with someone you are bound to, someone you trust. It could be a brother and sister, a husband and wife, a mother and daughter… Or in our case… Bound by a bargain.”
“And?” Saige presses impatiently.
“Together you must reveal truths you don’t want anyone to know, putting your trust explicitly in the person you are bound to. You need to be vulnerable.”
“And Malevron won’t do that,” she finishes for me.