The Echoing Threshold
A tremor rattled the newly healed obsidian plain as Marcus, Simon, and Peter paused at the foot of the shattered chasm. The Rift of Night lay sealed above them, but before them yawned a jagged passage carved into the living rock—an archway framed by teeth of black crystal that dripped with iridescent ichor. From its depths came a low, resonant hum, like the heartbeat of a slumbering colossus.
Simon swallowed. "This… this is the Gate of Whispers."
Peter's torch sputtered as a breath of wind—icy and fetid—swept from the arch. "It speaks before we enter."
Marcus stepped forward, hand on the hilt of the Sword of Light. Its glow pulsed in response, casting dancing shadows on the cavern walls. "The Watchers called this threshold the Tongue of Dread. Every word spoken within will be twisted, every thought become a weapon. We must guard our minds as fiercely as our bodies."
They crossed the threshold. Instantly, the air thickened, as if they breathed through water. The humming coalesced into voices—soft at first, indistinct, then coalescing into syllables that skimmed the edges of comprehension. The words curled around their skulls and sank in like vipers.
Simon clamped a hand to his temple. "Silence… I need silence."
Peter's eyes darted. "I can't tell what's real."
Marcus closed his eyes. In the void behind his lids, he found the still point of his faith—a memory of dawn's first light washing over his village. He breathed the memory in, letting its warmth fill his mind until the whispers receded to a distant hiss.
He opened his eyes. "Move forward. And speak only what you must."
They advanced along a narrow ledge hewn into the crystal, each step producing a high-pitched chime that seemed to amplify the voices around them. Great fissures yawned to one side, revealing a cathedral of subterranean splendour: pillars of smoky quartz soared upward into darkness, and between them floated motes of phosphorescence, like lost souls drifting into oblivion.
As they passed, the voices whispered temptations: "Abandon your quest… The Abyss promises peace… Let us free you from your burdens…" The words were velvet in their persuasion, enfolding the brothers in waves of relief—yet beneath the calm lay poison.
Peter staggered, vision blurring. "I… I hear my mother… calling me… come home."
Simon lunged to grab him. "Don't listen! Fight it!"
Marcus placed a hand on Peter's shoulder, anchoring him. "Remember the oath. Your path is not home, but forward, with us." He pressed his palm to Peter's brow, sending a pulse of light through his mind. Peter's eyes cleared.
They pressed on until the corridor branched into three paths, each marked by a runic glyph burning faintly on the crystal arch above:
The left: a spiral—"The Labyrinth of Regret"
The center: a jagged star—"The Corridor of Broken Promises"
The right: a circle etched with a slash—"The Hall of Vanished Names"
Simon frowned. "Which way?"
Marcus studied the glyphs. "All three lead to the heart of the Gate. We must choose together."
Peter's voice was steady despite his pallor. "Regret poisons the heart. Broken promises shatter the spirit. But names—when you lose your name, you lose your self. I say the Hall of Vanished Names is the deepest test."
Simon nodded. "I agree."
Marcus exhaled. "Then we go right." He lifted the Sword of Light, its blade gleaming like a beacon. "Let truth guide us."
They stepped into the Hall of Vanished Names. The walls here were smooth facades of onyx, reflective as polished mirrors. At first they saw only their own reflections, pale and haggard. But as they advanced, their images began to waver—features blurred, voices faltered, names vanished from lips.
Simon stared at his reflection. The man looking back had no name above the brow—no memory of childhood or kin. Simon's heart pounded. "Who am I… if not a Rowan?"
Peter peered at his own face. It shimmered, details dissolving into blankness. "And I…"
Marcus guided them forward, voice firm. "Speak your names." He turned to Simon. "Simon Rowan." Then to Peter: "Peter Rowan." And finally, his own: "Marcus Rowan." Each declaration sent a ripple through the mirrored surface, and their reflections refocused, anchors in the storm of oblivion.
But as they pressed on, the corridor narrowed until they walked shoulder to shoulder. At its end stood an altar of carved crystal, upon which lay a silver mask—featureless save for two eyeholes that glowed with inner light.
A voice, neither male nor female, echoed through the chamber: "Behind this mask lies the power to silence the Gate. Wear it, and speak the binding word." The word was whispered only once, in the hush of their souls. "Oblivion."
Peter reached for the mask, eyes haunted. "If I put it on—"
Marcus gripped his arm. "The mask steals your voice; you speak only the dead tongue. You risk never speaking your name again."
Simon's gaze flicked to the mask. "But if we don't—"
The corridor behind them groaned. A dark shape emerged—a form of living shadow, eyes glowing with the faces of the vanished. It advanced, mouths open, voiceless screams ripping the air.
Marcus drew the Sword of Light. "We have no time."
Peter hesitated, mask in hand. "Then we bind the Gate with light, not silence."
He set the mask down. Simon and Marcus flanked him, swords raised. The shadow lunged.
Marcus met it, blade blazing. Each strike dissolved tendrils of darkness, but the thing reformed, feeding on the emptiness of lost names. Peter closed his eyes and whispered to the Sword of Light: "Let the words we speak be our shield." The blade's glow intensified, rippling outward in arcs of living radiance.
Simon roared, driving the sword upward. The shadow recoiled, its shape unraveling like smoke in the wind. Peter stepped forward, voice rising above the Gate's hum: "By blood, by bond, by truth, we claim our names!" The light flared, and the shadow fractured into countless motes that scattered and vanished.
The mirror panels cracked, then shattered inward, showering them in crystal shards that dissolved into light upon touch. The altar crumbled, and the mask melted into silver droplets that fell at Peter's feet.
Marcus sheathed his sword and placed a hand on Peter's shoulder. "We need no mask to bind this Gate—only our voices and our faith."
The corridor brightened; the hum receded to silence. At the end, the archway led into an open cavern, where the crystalline teeth of the Gate stood spread like twin jaws. Beyond them lay a vaulted hall carved with the image of a Watcher weeping tears of blood.
Marcus stepped through first, the Sword of Light's glow illuminating runes on the floor. "This is the threshold to the Gate's heart. Beyond lies the Echoing Hall, where our final trial awaits."
Simon and Peter exchanged a look of grim resolve. "Then we step forward—together."
They crossed the threshold, and the Gate of Whispers closed behind them with a sonorous clang. The arch's crystal fangs snapped shut, sealing out all noise but their own breathing.
In the darkness, the Sword of Light flared once more, and they found themselves standing in a vast rotunda. The walls were lined with bas-reliefs of every trial they had faced—the wraiths of the river, the heart of suffering, the whispers, the vanished names—all converging upon a central dais. On the dais rested an obsidian cube, its six faces etched with the glyphs of the Gate's corridors.
A final voice echoed from the cube: "Complete the cycle, or be consumed."
Marcus approached, voice clear. "We began with suffering, fear, loss, and doubt. We endure with truth, faith, and unity. We finish with sacrifice."
He placed the Sword of Light's tip upon the cube's surface. The blade's radiance spread across a glyph—the spiral of the Labyrinth of Regret—and the cube spun.
Simon followed, touching the jagged star of Broken Promises. Peter placed his hand over the circle of Vanished Names. With each touch, the cube turned, and the trials they had overcome reanimated in ghostly relief on the walls.
When the sixth face aligned, the cube sank into the dais. A great pulse of light burst outward, washing the rotunda in brilliance. The Gate's crystal fangs retracted, and the archway ahead opened onto a cavern aflame with living flame.
They stood at the threshold of the Echoing Hall—a chamber of fire and shadow, where every fear they had faced would rise one last time to test their resolve. Beyond it lay the path to the Abyss's core and the final confrontation with the void itself.
Marcus turned to his brothers. "The Gate is sealed behind us. What lies ahead will demand all we have left."
Simon clenched his axe. "Then we give it all."
Peter raised his torch. "For every name, every soul, every light we carry."
Marcus lifted the Sword of Light. "Together, into the Echoing Hall."
They stepped forward, and the door of flame roared shut behind them.