Episode 3 Part 3 Sneak Peek #13

A little bit of progress here... There are numerous variation checks in this section, so when you encounter it in-game it may be a little different. 

You tread carefully across the cavernous hall, keen to avoid the gaping holes in the stonework, your footsteps echo hollowly with every step. Aeran’s torch bobs ahead of you, lighting the way—a spark in the darkness. A wide staircase rises from the centre of the chamber, climbing to the first floor mezzanine. Light filters in from the windows above, cutting through the dark. This entrance hall is different from the Spire’s—wide and open, with a mezzanine for each floor looking down on the ones below. Six, by your count. You have a long way to go.

There is little desire to talk after your flight to the tower. Though you are safe for now, the shroud is not likely to give up its hunt so easily. Diradan is broken, it could easily find its way inside on another floor. And once you retrieve the Astrial, you will have to escape with it. Regardless of how events play out, a confrontation with it is on your horizon. You will have to be prepared.

With a sigh, you set a foot on the first step. It creaks beneath your weight, sending a startling crack of wood against wood echoing through the empty hall. You freeze, jolted by the sound, your heart leaping into your throat.

Aeran glances sharply over his shoulder, his profile illuminated in flickering torchlight. His expression relaxes when he spots you and he nods, carrying on without comment. Cursing yourself for being so jumpy and trying not to take a fucking step as a bad omen, you scramble after him and start the long climb.

It’s difficult not to hold your breath. The steps aren’t steep, and yet your lungs refuse to move and your throat is strangled. Dread sits in the pit your stomach, roiling as if you’ve eaten something that disagreed with you—and perhaps it’s not far from the truth. The whole of Diradan Tower disagrees with you and the citadel itself is no exception. Magic clings to the walls, pulsing and pounding, its essence interwoven with the very fabric of everything around you. You can sense it in the stone and mortar, the wood and finishings. It even dances in the air like dust motes, golden particles shimmering in the light. The remnants of centuries of mages studying here, their touch leaving hundreds of individual marks on these hallowed halls. Powerful magic, weak magic, everything in between.

You never imagined you would find yourself in the heart of the Guild of Mages. You have visited a random chapter or two in backwater villages more than once in your day, but to see the centre of the most prestigious training grounds in the world? The seat of the Council of Mages? As a Wayfarer, this is the one place you are not allowed. You should never have seen these halls. Something is very wrong with the world for you to be here.

But there’s more to this sinking feeling in your belly than simply standing here in Diradan Tower. It’s the knowledge that your journey is nearing its end. You’ve spent a month considering this moment and soon it will be over. Get in. Get out. Get paid. Simple. And yet you can’t fully escape your growing trepidation. You can only make sense of your life when you have a clear goal, and clear goals only happen when you have a contract. Perhaps you’re not quite ready to be done with this one as you thought.

Or maybe it’s the fear that something is going to go terribly wrong.

The citadel groans as you reach the first mezzanine, leaving a tangible ache in the air. Stone scrapes against stone as if it is coming apart at the seams. The destructive forces that ran unchecked have blasted doors apart, burned the walls, left trails of ash in their wake… It’s a miracle that the building is still standing. You can only conclude that centuries of compacted magic is responsible for holding the whole thing up. In a way, Diradan Tower is too stubborn to die.

You round the mezzanine, Aeran’s torchlight bobbing ahead of you as he searches for the next set of stairs. Between its flickering warmth, the cool shafts of sunlight drifting in from above, and the glowing luminosity of the arcane seal running up and down the grand doors, there’s a strange multitude of discordant light on this level. It plays against the walls, illuminating intricate reliefs and mosaics damaged beyond recognition. The remnants of arched doors lead to long, open corridors that disappear into the solitary dark.

Something flickers in your peripheral vision and you pause at one such entrance, brows drawn together.

For a moment you thought you saw figures in the hallway—not unlike the echoes you’ve seen elsewhere—but now you stare at a hollow emptiness. A strange sense of déjà vu washes over you. It’s easy—perhaps a little too easy—to imagine this place on an ordinary day, with hordes of students and teachers and researchers jostling each other as they go about their daily activities. The Spire was never busy, there were only a couple dozen Wayfarers living at the citadel when you began your training, but you can extrapolate.

A shiver rolls down your spine, and, once again, you find yourself retreading familiar ground. How many people died in this disaster? How many lost friends, lovers, apprentices, mentors? The Guild is displaced now, decentralized, shaken. Even those far from Arathia will feel its effects. This event will be central to their history now, reshaping it into two halves, the time before and the time after.

And that is something you know all too well.

1. Your opinion about the Guild has not changed. It never will.
2. Maybe after everything you’ve seen… your opinion has shifted. Loss is loss. Regardless of who it happens to.
[CHOICE] 3. Your mind is blank. You don’t know what to think anymore. It’s easier not to.

The Spire—your home—was taken from you. Brutally and ruthlessly and you are still left wondering how. The Guild is different. They know exactly how their destruction came about. You could argue that their hubris wrought it upon themselves.

But you can’t. You can’t bring yourself to even think about it. Poking the thought means acknowledging something you’d rather not face about yourself. It’s easier to simply move on.

You’re a mercenary. You’re not equipped for deep introspection. You hit things with your sword.