Echoes Beneath the Tower
Part IV: The Grey Memory
The air deepened as they descended—more than cold now, it pressed inward like the silence between two thunderclaps. The stone steps spiraled downward in a perfect helix, untouched by time, slick with condensation and threaded with fine veins of crystal that pulsed faintly in rhythm with their footsteps.
There was no moss here, no decay. Only pristine stone, the soft glow of old magic, and a feeling that the tower itself was watching.
Jahn broke the silence. “That guardian said none who walked this path returned.”
“Maybe they didn’t want to,” Wolfthora muttered, adjusting her gauntlet. “Or maybe what they found changed them.”
Thalyria’s voice was quiet but steady. “Then we’ll be the first to know what became of them.”
They reached the bottom of the stairs and emerged into a vast circular chamber, unlike anything in the tower above. The ceiling arched high into darkness, too far to be touched by their spells. In the center of the floor was a wide basin carved from obsidian, filled with still, silver water. Pillars of smooth stone circled it—twelve in all—each etched with symbols that shimmered faintly in shifting light.
But it was the walls that stole their breath.
Painted in ancient pigments, unmarred by time, was a mural—no, a history. Four towers stood at the corners of a great crossroads: blue, red, green, and grey. Runes and emblems coiled outward from each, their meanings half-familiar. Wizards in robes of each color worked together at a central forge, weaving spells into the land. Below them, lines of text in forgotten tongues, accompanied by swirling constellations and fractured mirrors.
“This is the truth,” Nyssarra said, her voice low. “Not allegory. Not myth. Memory.”
Jahn moved slowly toward the basin. “What is this water?”
Thalyria reached out, letting her fingers hover above the surface. “Divination... or something older. This is a scrying pool. But it’s tied to the room itself—this isn’t a window to the world. It’s a window to time.”
Wolfthora looked to the mural. “So let’s open it.”
Together, the four of them stood around the basin, hands outstretched. Thalyria began a soft chant in the language of Saradominist rites; Nyssarra answered with a melodic whisper in Elven, her voice crystalline and deep; Jahn added a steady, grounding hum drawn from knightly litanies; and Wolfthora, unhesitant, spoke a sharp phrase in old Karamjan—a fragment of a Zamorakian battle prayer.
The basin responded.
The silver surface rippled, then went dark. In its depths, the chamber flickered to life—not in reflection, but in memory.
They saw the tower as it had been—bright and full of movement. Wizards of all Orders walked the halls, robes mingling freely. In one image, a Blue wizard bent over a scroll while a Red whispered advice; in another, a Green and a Grey performed a ritual of healing together, runes dancing in perfect tandem. The Spiral Sigil was everywhere—on robes, books, walls, etched in light above archways.
“It was true,” Thalyria whispered. “Unity wasn’t a dream. It existed.”
But the memory shifted.
Fire in the skies. Shadows crawling over the walls. The four Orders stood in a circle, voices raised not in harmony but in accusation. The mural above seemed to weep as the vision showed towers burning, alliances fracturing.
Then, a final image: a group of Grey Wizards, cloaked and solemn, descending the spiral stairs carrying the last fragments of knowledge. Behind them, the chamber above sealed shut, the keystone locking into place.
The memory ended.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Jahn said softly, “They didn’t just come here to hide. They came to preserve.”
Thalyria turned from the basin, fire in her eyes. “We have to bring this back. All of it. The Orders worked together. They believed in something more.”
Nyssarra nodded, but her expression was somber. “Yes. But belief will not be enough. We need proof. We need understanding.”
Wolfthora tapped one of the etched pillars. “Then we better start digging.”
They spent hours within the chamber. The twelve pillars proved to be repositories—each encoded with a branch of magical philosophy, each marked by a different seal: Creation, Destruction, Balance, Chaos, Life, Death, Time, Space, Spirit, Will, Memory, and Dream. Some Thalyria could read. Others resisted even her staff’s guidance.
But one pillar—the pillar of Memory—opened.
It unfolded like petals, revealing a scroll suspended in a crystal casing. Runes shimmered along its length, humming with a resonance that matched the mural.
Thalyria read aloud: “‘In the union of opposites lies the path to truth. The Spiral is not hierarchy. It is not control. It is choice, repeated. Over and over. In choosing each other, we remake the world.’”
Wolfthora stared. “That sounds like something Guthix would say.”
“And yet,” Nyssarra murmured, “It was written by the Grey.”
Jahn tilted his head. “Then maybe the Grey weren’t followers of one god. Maybe they were beyond that. Beyond even neutrality.”
Thalyria’s hands trembled as she lifted the scroll from its cradle. “This... this will shake the Wizard Tower to its foundations. If they let me publish it. If they don’t bury it again.”
“They won’t stop you,” Jahn said gently. “Not while we’re with you.”
Nyssarra offered a rare smile. “And not while truth still matters.”
Wolfthora cracked her knuckles. “And if they try? Let ’em.”
As they climbed the long spiral back to the surface, the keystone chamber responded to their passing. The beams of color—blue, red, green, and gray—flared once more, then braided together into a helix of light that sank into the pedestal and vanished.
Above them, the Spiral Sigil gleamed once more—complete.
To be concluded in Part V: A Tower Remade