The Gravity of the Situation

Litany of Silence – Fragment IV

Day 112 of the Southern Archive survey.

Today, in the collapsed tunnels of a spire in the castle of the old Sperketh Kingdom, I have uncovered a mural untouched by light since the early years of the second era.

It depicts the same figure I have been tracing for nine years. The carvings of the man share many similarities. The armor worn does vary slightly, but I would chalk that up to different time periods. No color remains in the pigments used to paint it, though the outline is precise. The pose is identical to the findings in the Ytheran catacombs and the Loryth crypt, which leads me to believe this was done by the same artist or passed down through their family as a warning. It could be a possible witness to an encounter with him, though likely not one of his targets.

In the foreground, he is surrounded by fallen figures, each scattered and limbs twisted. Behind him, rubble and fire, like he is liberating Hell itself. This is just pure conjecture, but artwork of that level of violence is quite rare for that time period. I believe he left quite the impression that was so great it set a necessity for its creation.

I compared the mural’s stone to samples from the Outer Hold. The chisel work and mineral composition date to the early Second Era, centuries before most surviving accounts. If accurate, this is the oldest visual record yet of his presence.

Cross-referencing all thirty-one confirmed depictions by my team, I note a consistency that unsettles me: no matter the medium, his body and design proportions never vary. The depictions match within a margin of less than two percent across different cultures, kingdoms and centuries.

None of the sources depict survivors of his onslaught. Not one. Even the stonework here shows that he had no mercy to his foes.

If he spares, there is no record of someone living to date. It seems logical to say that if he wants you dead, you will not see the light of tomorrow.

The longer I follow these traces of this 'silent man', the more I feel that he is not bound by time or empire. If he was just a myth or a fairytale, I might be content on ending my research on him, but the fact that there has been no record of him dying leaves me a little frightened. The last confirmed sighting was 46 years ago (426 T.E.). In an account by a mixed-beastfolk child, she was witness to the pure destruction he caused to an entire village in the pursuit of a single target.

Evening – Underground D-Complex

“You’ve been misfiled,” Coral said. His voice was warped with odd emphasis, as if every word was a phrase or proverb. “Unregistered guests… misnumbered… improperly cross-referenced.” A smile tugged at his lips, monocle swinging like a grandfather clock on each exaggerated head movement. “Don’t worry, I’ll redact you now... hmm-hm-hmm.”

His sword gleamed in his hand, a slender blade whose edge seemed to shimmer, scattering faint slivers of green that floated like confetti. The fragments drifted for a heartbeat before vanishing, too fleeting to understand.

Joren’s throat locked tight. The air felt stale, like there wasn’t enough left to breathe. The commander wasn’t just a wall in their path, he was what would likely be their last enemy.

He tried to think of something, anything, but all he could picture were iron doors slamming shut, hands wrenching his arms behind his back, torture, and his eventual death in these forgotten parts of building D. He thought about Hazel’s stall empty without him, Elira’s letters from him gathering dust in a corner, Isla wondering when Joren would come back to visit. His stomach twisted at the thought of Gus and Willow dragged into cells, Bartholomew silenced, their journey ending here in a bureaucrat’s domain.

His chest ached at the sorrow of letting everyone down, every beat a hammer. The walls seemed to close in on him, the ceiling falling down, the floor shifting beneath his boots.

We can’t… I can’t... let them take us.

Something inside him cracked open, like a dam breaking under pressure.

The corridor buckled, the foundation cracked even more.

A deep tremor emerged from Joren, invisible yet undeniable that he caused it. The air warped, bending like heat off of a stone, like the mirage of a desert. The light felt darker, the air looked as if you were peering through a warped windowpane.

The corridor convulsed under the weight of something it had never been built to hold. Guards slammed flat against the tiles with a metallic chorus, knees biting into stone and weapons falling from their hands. The commander withstood the initial blow, but after five seconds, he too suffered the same fate. The artifact sword fell from his hands, his filing cabinet groaning under the weight. Surprisingly, the tiny wheels on the bottom did not give out.

Joren’s vision tunneled to a single burning white point. Each heartbeat felt like it would split him in half. His knees buckled, but the field raged on, raw and merciless, spilling from him like a dam had finally given way.

“Joren! Now!” Willow’s voice cut through, sharp enough to pierce his tunnel vision.

Joren’s head jerked toward the sealed double doors behind the four of them. His body moved before his mind caught up, driven by Willow’s command and the tiny bit of instinct still left in him.

He stumbled forward, the weight of the collapsing corridor keeping their pursuers from stopping their last attempt at escape. A relatively small star flared to life in his palm, a growing sphere of light that hissed as it touched the steel liner keeping them from running further.

Heat permeated outward in angry waves, melting the mechanisms inside the door. The doors warped and charred, rivets popping from their resting place like firecrackers. The smell of scorched alloy filled his throat, sharp enough to sting. He was utilizing his star as a makeshift welding tool.

The star seared a glowing crack up the seam until the metal weakened, soft and pliable under the right pressure. Willow braced her boot against the door without the lined steel plate. With a unified shove, the four of them kicked the warped doors open. Smoke and heat rolled out into the corridor, but it was open.

Finally, a way forward.

Joren's gravity persisted for a bit of time after they slipped through the opening towards the corridors of C, allowing them a few precious seconds to get ahead. The corridors of Building C stretched out familiar and alien at the same time: service halls, storage bays, the echo of alarms blaring above ground. The air stank of smoke, the taste of it still caught in Joren’s mouth as he ran.

“Right!” Willow barked, cutting sharp toward the hall she originally came from when she first investigated. Gus followed close, dragging Bartholomew under his arm like goat feed when the older man threatened to lag behind with his tiny legs.

“This is hardly dignified!” he wheezed, clinging to his cheese wedge with white-knuckled devotion.

“Better undignified than dead!” Gus shot back, his voice strained as he shouldered them both onward like a pack mule.

Joren staggered after them, lungs raw but legs pumping, the star in his palm finally sputtering out as his strength began to sway.

A stack of crates loomed up along the next bend, its uneven placement shaking with their passing. Gus clipped the edge as they passed and the whole stack tilted violently, toppling into the corridor behind them with a deafening crash. Metal, wood, and ceramic clattered against the floor, scattering debris across the hall that would slow their pursuers. The shouts grew muffled, tangled in the noise not long after.

“Keep moving!” Willow urged, her braided hair now whipping behind her as she cut down another corridor. She checked every fork in the path before darting through, the sharp edge of her focus never faltering as she led the charge. In Joren's current state, she was the next best leader for them.

They tore past another storage room, the doors marked with faded painted symbols Joren barely had time to register. Willow spared a glance, recognizing it instantly. That was the room she’d scavenged her soldier’s uniform from: an outfit that had lasted all of ten minutes before she was caught. Her lip pursed as she sprinted by.

So much for that plan.

“Faster!” Willow barked, forcing more strength into legs that already burned.

Joren felt every step as if the floor were dragging him down, the aftershock of his gravity burst still buzzing in his bones. His head was spinning from heat exhaustion. The lift had to be close now, otherwise he might not make it all the way there. He doubted Gus could carry him and Bart without significantly slowing down.

The corridor narrowed, every echo magnified until it felt like the shouts behind them were pressing against their backs. Joren’s vision swam with white, the lightbulbs streaking across the walls like smears of paint.

“There!” Willow’s voice cut through, ragged but certain.

The lift bay came into view at the far end, its reinforced doors a sight for sore eyes.

Bartholomew groaned under Gus’s arm. “If this is salvation, it had better come with some tea and cookies.”

“Keep moving!” Gus gritted, his own breath ragged.

They reached the lift controls, Willow slamming her palm against the button. With a heavy clunk, the doors began to drag open, slow and mechanical, as though the whole building were conspiring to test their patience.

“Inside, now!” Willow barked.

They crammed into the doorway, Bart half-sprawling on the floor as Gus threw him the rest of the way in. Willow hit the button over and over again, and the doors ground shut, sealing off the pounding boots further down the halls.

For a heartbeat, the world went still. Then the lift lurched as it carried them upward.

The motion pressed them all into silence, disturbed only by ragged breathing, sharp and uneven in the confined space.

Joren slumped back against the wall, eyes closing for a moment as his chest dragged in air. His arms trembled, every muscle screaming with exhaustion. The phantom heat of the star still clung to his hand, but the heat exhaustion was finally beginning to slow. For the first time since the corridor had buckled under his power, he felt like he might be able to breathe again.

Gus leaned on the opposite wall, sweat plastering bits of his spikey hair to his forehead. Bartholomew rolled on the floor, tugging his coat into some semblance of order as though dignity could be salvaged from the wreck. Willow stood near the buttons, her hand braced against the handles, eyes locked on the seam of the door as if daring it to open too soon.

They had a minute of reprieve within this tiny world known as an elevator.

Joren opened his eyes again, dragging in one more breath. The strength was coming back, just enough to matter.

I can move again. I can keep going.

Gus broke the silence with a low groan, rubbing at his shoulder. “Never—” he panted, “—never thought I’d miss hauling clay.”

Bartholomew scoffed, rolling onto his side, looking like a goddess of mythology. “You’re begging for clay. Sure beats spending the rest of our lives in a cell.”

Willow didn’t even glance back. “Both of you shut it. We aren't people who would be caught so easily.”

“That’s rich, considering we saved you just now.” Bart wheezed like a grandpa. “If I keel over, I want it on record that my last words were at least stylish.”

Gus grunted, half a laugh, half a cough. “They’ll etch it onto your headstone "Here lies Bart. Died fashionable'."

Joren let their voices wash over him, grounding him in something almost normal. His chest still ached, his vision still wavered, but the banter reminded him they were together. It reminded him that Willow was safe again.

The cab rattled again, the cables rattled louder, as if the building itself wanted to remind them how fragile this peace was.

Joren drew in one steady breath, then another, testing his legs as he shifted against the wall. They still shook under him as he clutched the railing, but the collapse he’d feared wasn’t there. The stillness grew heavy, stretched thin by the groan of gears above.

The cab shuddered as the doors hissed and the sound of chaos poured in.

Noise hit them like a wall.

Alarms blared somewhere past their hallway, their shrill pitch bouncing off stone and steel. The thundering of boots pounded in every direction, soldiers shouting orders that overlapped until they blurred together. Smoke rolled through the corridor.

What the hell did we miss while we were down below?

The four of them stepped out together, blinking against the sudden haze. The corridor felt different than the sterile, dusty halls they’d left behind only an hour ago. Soldiers tore past crossways in twos and threes, some dragging hoses, others hauling buckets. The air stank of smoke, burning their throats and eyes.

For an instant it felt possible to just slip into the frenzy and let the chaos carry them unseen toward freedom.

But then Joren saw it.

At the far end of the hall, framed in the light of singular light bulbs, a figure stood motionless.

Just waiting.

The world seemed to bend around that silence, muting the roar of alarms, softening the thunder of boots. Smoke curled over the figure’s outline, concealing its face but not its presence.

Joren’s stomach dropped. His pulse tripped, and he felt the others slow beside him, caught in the same dread.

They weren’t free yet.