A hush fell as the four guardians crossed the threshold of Malrik's fortress. The twin doors swung shut behind them with a sound like cracking ice, sealing them in a vast hall of midnight-black stone. Polished obsidian walls rose on either side, inset with veins of twisting silver runes that pulsed faintly as if alive. Overhead, crystal chandeliers shaped like skeletal hands dripped dark lantern-light that danced in uneasy patterns, casting the long shadows of statues—fallen Elemental Vanguards frozen in obsidian.
Riven slipped ahead, hand on the hilt of his dagger. "These halls feed on fear and memory," he warned in a low voice. "Each rune is a ward against intrusion; each statue, a sentinel of Malrik's making. We must move swiftly—and stay true to ourselves."
Lior stepped forward, the Heartstone's glow pressing warm against his chest. He raised a hand and let a ribbon of ember-light trace the nearest rune. The silver line flared then crumbled into harmless ash. "Flame can break the illusions," he murmured. Sylas nodded, sending a silent gust down the corridor that fluffed away drifting motes of shadow.
They advanced between the statues. At the central landing, the floor began to tremble. With a thunderous groan, two massive golems of jagged obsidian rose from hidden pits—one shaped like a flame-wreathed warrior, the other like a cyclone of razor-sharp blades. They stood guard over a grand staircase that spiraled upward into darkness.
Corwin drew his conch and whispered into it. A surge of water burst from the walls' hidden fissures, sluicing the tunnel and weakening the golem of fire. Lior flung a wave of flame to counter, and Sylas whipped a vortex of wind around them, funneling steam and scattering shards of molten rock. Bram pummeled the ground with his staff, and living roots shattered the obsidian feet of the blade golem, bringing it crashing down.
The staircase lay open before them. Shadows pooled in its crevices, and at its apex a single silver rune glowed—its script shifting like living water. Sylas approached, laying a reassuring hand on the rune. With a breath he sang a single note, and the script stilled, revealing an arrow of light pointing upward. "This way," he whispered.
They climbed in silence, each step drawing them deeper into the fortress's heart. At the top, they found a circular chamber lined with mirrors of smoky glass. Reflected in every angle were four twisted versions of themselves—faces marred by doubt, bodies contorted by fear. The largest mirror at the far end was framed by runes that shimmered like liquid night.
Riven's voice was taut. "The Mirror of Despair. It will show you the worst of yourselves—tempting you to turn back."
One by one, they stepped before the great mirror:
Lior saw himself consumed by his own flame, a pyre that devoured friend and foe alike. He reached out…and the reflection's hand scorched the glass, cracking it.
Sylas watched his melody warp into a screeching gale that lashed the innocent. He closed his eyes, summoned a breath of calm, and the mirror's wind howled itself into dust.
Corwin beheld the sea rising to drown him and those he loved. He cupped his hands to his mouth, naming his vow—and the water in the mirror stilled, droplets falling harmlessly to the floor.
Bram met the image of himself crushed beneath his own weight, earth shaking with his failure. He planted his boots firmly, grounding his spirit, and the mirror fissured like healed scars.
The great mirror shattered, shards drifting across the floor like fallen stars. At its center lay the final rune: a fractal spiral that pulsed with dark energy. Lior knelt and pressed the Heartstone against it. Light flared in blinding arcs and the rune dissolved in a quiet sigh of release.
Beyond the mirrors, a yawning archway opened into the fortress's core chamber. Torches of black flame flanked a dais of obsidian veined with silver. Upon it sat Malrik himself: tall and gaunt, his eyes two pools of storm-dark magic, robes swirling like living shadow. Behind him, the shattered remains of the original Heartstone glimmered on a pedestal—its shards strewn across a warped mosaic of broken runes.
"My champions," Malrik intoned, voice echoing on every wall. "So you have come at last. You bear the reforged Heartstone—but do you know the price of true power?" He raised a single hand, and a gust of wind extinguished every torch in the chamber, plunging them into an obsidian darkness lit only by the Heartstone's glow.
Lior felt the warmth of the stone gather in his palm. Sylas, Corwin, and Bram closed in beside him, their breaths visible in the chill gloom. Riven's dagger gleamed faintly as he advanced.
Malrik's laughter rolled like thunder. "Let us see if united hearts can withstand… my dominion of shadows."
He spoke a word of power, and the chamber shuddered, the obsidian floor splintering into a web of dark cracks that pulsed with malignant light. From those cracks, tendrils of dark magic snaked toward them—seeking to wrap around their limbs, to sever their bond.
Lior lifted the Heartstone high, its four-hued light shining like a beacon. Sylas summoned a storm-breath of wind to disperse the tendrils. Corwin flooded the floor at their feet, washing away the darkness. Bram struck the ground with his staff, and roots of living stone burst through the obsidian cracks, sealing them shut.
The chamber fell silent. In that stillness, Malrik's silhouette glowed with contempt. "Impressive," he said softly. "But this is only the beginning."
He raised his arms, and the final battle loomed on the edge of shadow and light.