Benjamin's head throbbed, every sense inundated with a cacophony of knowledge and images. The hexahedron's harsh glow cast dancing shadows across the fractured walls of the ancient hall. Tendrils of dark energy slithered around him, condensing in the shape of half-seen forms and vanishing again in the flickering light. The ground trembled beneath his knees, fissures cracking the stone floor. He could still taste blood on his tongue.
Atty, the loyal Attush, lay a mere dozen feet away—its body contorted by a malignant power that shimmered in jagged arcs over its fur. Where once there had been a soft, black coat and keen golden eyes, now a patchy hide mottled with dull, infected ridges replaced it. Claws lengthened, and a shrill whimper escaped the creature's throat. Each breath came in labored, staccato gasps.
The voice of Malachros's fragment raged with renewed fury. "You cannot fight me. I am older than this place. I am older than your feeble lines of mortals. Surrender, or I will unmake all you hold dear". With every syllable, Benjamin felt a raw static prickling behind his eyes, as though the intangible presence was rummaging through his memories.
Yet, in the swirling vortex of the shard's knowledge, something new flickered. Fragments of silver light—remnants of another time. Lost recollections whispered of the Itharim who had not strayed. Spheres of higher existence, watchful and waiting, uncorrupted by mortal flaws. Benjamin clung to these ephemeral hints as one clings to a raft in a storm-tossed sea.
He forced himself to stand. His knees buckled at first, and he pressed a trembling hand against the nearest chunk of fallen stone to steady himself. The hall around him shook again as an aftershock of dark energy crackled through the air, pitting stone and dust from the pillars. High above, the broken ceiling revealed faint slices of what might have been the outside sky—pale and unhelpful, no hero's dawn rising for him.
"Atty," he croaked, throat raw from dust and exertion. "Stay with me."
A rancid hiss spooled from the Attush's twisted jaw. The creature lifted its head, eyes no longer bright gold but swirling with murky reds and blacks. The corruption advanced with every breath. Benjamin's heart pounded with the dread of seeing a dear companion transformed into a savage thrall.
Malachros's laugh reverberated through the chamber. "Little mortal, you can barely stand, and yet you defy me?" The glow in the hexahedron pulsed in time with the mocking voice. "I have had centuries to plan my return, to gather scraps of old power left behind. You are nothing but my key—a vessel I can twist and discard. And now your pet shall serve me, or die in agony."
Benjamin wanted to lash out, but his ring was spent—Kareya's gift had discharged its final push before. His physical strength was meager, and every muscle burned in rebellion. Yet a new sort of strength flickered in his mind: the knowledge gleaned from the hexahedron's archives. He had glimpsed a hidden library within, a cosmic tapestry describing the Itharim's war against Malachros after the First Discord. He'd seen glimpses of mysterious rites, channeled through the fabric of creation itself.
Shoving aside the terror, he dipped into that reservoir. I can't let him… let it… have Atty. I won't lose you to this. His mind flashed to Yu, to Kareya, to the glimpses of possibility that had brought him so far. He had to fight.
A broken mosaic on the wall caught his eye—its design scratched nearly beyond recognition. Yet one fragment of color remained: the faint outline of an Itharim, crowned in swirling light, arms extended in supplication to the Maker. The mosaic was so worn it was difficult to discern details, but the posture suggested an intercession, a bridging between mortal will and the higher powers.
Benjamin recalled lines from the swirl of knowledge he'd absorbed: When despair looms and corruption spreads, call upon the watchful, those who remain in the Maker's song. Let your soul stand as anchor, for they cannot come unless a mortal invites them with an unclouded heart.
Unclouded heart, he thought bitterly. Mine's already half-possessed.
But a seed of hope took root: The shard's text suggested that, under dire circumstances, an individual might resonate with a loyal Itharim by forging a link through pure will—like a plea for help. The Itharim, bound by cosmic law, would only answer if the mortal acted with humility and sincerity, not greed. That was the condition: to yield to a higher song.
He closed his eyes. The stench of Malachros's corruption stifled him, swirling around Atty's writhing form. He pictured Atty before all this: the small, black-furred creature curling up in a sunny spot at the inn, purring contentedly. The memory steadied him. He inhaled deeply, ignoring the tremors underfoot, ignoring the cackling voice that threatened to unravel his senses.
"I invoke…" he began in a low whisper, uncertain of what he was truly doing. The words formed in his mind, unbidden, a litany weaving from the fragments of the shard's cosmic library. His lips proferred first words of a language unknown and then it adapted as if tuning in to Benjamin who lifted a trembling hand toward the chipped mosaic. "I invoke the harmony that remains in this place. I beseech the Itharim—those loyal to Asterion… I ask for your light."
He sounded foolish to his own ears, but he pressed on.
Malachros hissed, and the shard flickered with sudden intensity. "What are you doing?" it demanded. "No one will answer your pathetic call. They abandoned mortals ages ago."
Benjamin's voice grew steadier, almost as though a second presence guided him. "We are not abandoned," he said, each syllable coming more confidently. "We lost our way, but the Itharim… they watch. They remain. If there is any law left in this place, let it answer me now."
The pulsing in the hall changed texture. Instead of the harsh thunder of Malachros's influence, a faint melodic vibration stirred the very stones. Dust drifted from the ceiling in gentle spirals. The mosaic on the wall, so chipped and battered, began to glimmer faintly.
A snarl echoed through Benjamin's mind. "Enough!" Malachros roared. "I will not stand for this farce." The hexahedron glowed a deep, furious crimson. Bolts of dark energy crackled across the floor, clawing toward Benjamin's legs.
At the same time, Atty let out another desperate yowl, wracked by the corruption that was disfiguring its body. The Attush's eyes rolled back, as if fighting on some primal level. For an instant, Benjamin faltered, desperate to help but too overwhelmed by the energies swirling around him.
He hardened his resolve, turning his focus fully on the precarious new path—this ephemeral link to the loyal Itharim. The knowledge from the shard indicated that calling upon such power required a price: the mortal vessel had to act as a bridge, offering up a portion of their own life-force as a conduit. If that's the price, I have no choice, he thought grimly.
Clutching at the swirling darkness that snaked around his legs, Benjamin exhaled, speaking words that no mortal had spoken in centuries: "I stand as the anchor—let the Maker's harmony take root."
The cracks in the mosaic shimmered. For an instant, the effigy of the ancient Itharim was revealed in full, as though the broken shards had been momentarily mended by light. A gentle hush enveloped the hall, thick with tension but also a newly found stillness, as though the world held its breath.
A single beam of pale illumination shone down from one of the ragged apertures in the ceiling, catching the dusty air and forming a glowing pillar around Benjamin. He felt warmth fill his chest, pushing back the shard's oppressive chill for the span of a heartbeat.
Then Malachros screamed, an unearthly shriek that wrenched the very air. "You dare invite them here? ". The hexahedron rattled in its place, launching fresh arcs of black lightning that struck the wall, the floor, and the mosaic. The stone parted in places, revealing twisted fissures that glowed red, as if lava churned below the surface.
Benjamin swayed, the tether forging between him and something beyond mortal ken. Dimly, he sensed a presence—or presences—on the threshold of Khial's reality, poised to respond. But the clash of energies was brutal, tearing at the environment and at Benjamin's mind.
Atty twitched, pinned under a swirl of darkness. The Attush's golden eyes flickered, momentarily replaced by a swirling black hue, then shifting back again. "Help… help me," Benjamin whispered, though his words were as much a plea for the unseen Itharim as for himself.
A Voice—not words, more a melodic undertone—resonated through his thoughts. Its timbre felt old and gentle, a counterpoint to the shrieking discord of Malachros. At first, it was pure tone, but then it shimmered into faint meaning: We cannot save you without a vessel. Your kind must be the seed of that which we shape.
Benjamin ground his teeth. A vessel, the Itharim said. They needed a shape in which to anchor a portion of their own power. But these pure Itharim were never forced on Khial; they had to be invited, given form through mortal imagination or synergy. That was the law: the Maker's gift of free will.
He glanced at Atty, remembering the fleeting glimpses of possibility. He thought of how the Attush had saved him before, how it had fiercely leapt onto the artifact. "I… I can't let it end this way," he murmured, reaching into the swirling blackness that pinned the small creature.
One last time, he drew on the library's knowledge. The Itharim had always required sacrifice—an exchange of essence that overcame mortal limitations. If he channeled this half-formed connection, perhaps he could anchor a loyal Itharim in Atty's place. But that meant letting go of the Attush's current form, the battered body writhing under corruption. Atty's spirit would be a bridge, its essence folded into a new shape that might defy the dark.
Malachros hissed, sensing the plan. "No, mortal! I forbid it!" The hexahedron rattled violently, unleashing wave after wave of hateful energy. Jagged cracks opened in the floor, swirling with noxious red light. The air heated, stinking of sulfur and rancid decay.
Benjamin felt the corruption lash at his mind, but pressed onward, voice cracking with the immensity of what he attempted. "I offer… my own will," he said. "Maker, Itharim—take from me what you need. Just save Atty." The Attush represented for Benjamin an anchor for his heart that even he was not aware of. In this foreign world Atty acted as an anchor that helped Benjamin maintain his sanity.
His entire being screamed in protest as threads of silvery essence drifted from his chest, drawn up into the swirling light overhead. The mosaic again flickered with brilliance, and faint, half-seen silhouettes glided along the edges of his vision. He glimpsed ephemeral wings, or perhaps shimmering robes, but their forms were too luminous to define.
Atty convulsed, letting out a strangled cry. The blackness around it flared, forging deeper into its flesh. Benjamin could hardly bear the sight. Still, he maintained the connection, tears streaming down his face.
The presence from beyond responded with musical finality. Then so be it. Shape the vessel, mortal. Let your imagination guide the form of the new bond.
Benjamin recalled an image from the dungeon's murals mixing it with knowledhe from Earth: regal creatures half-bird, half-lion—mythic shapes once rumored in the oldest stories, but nowhere confirmed. He'd glimpsed them in the context of history or legend back when he was a librarian, but never as a living species. Something about their noble bearing, the fusion of flight and power, had appealed to him. A being that soared above boundaries.
With the last vestiges of his strength, he poured that vision into the swirling light, pulling at Atty's essence and offering it as the core. He pictured majestic wings, a lithe leonine body, a proud beak glinting in a sunrise that no one else could see.
Malachros raged louder, his shriek distorting the walls themselves. "You cannot conjure such illusions! Khial has never known these beasts. They are anathema!" The jagged lightning hammered downward, fracturing pillars. A chunk of ceiling crashed into the corner of the altar, sending shards of stone skittering across the floor.
But Benjamin refused to let go. Beneath his palm, Atty's battered form glowed with incandescence. The swirling corruption battled with a surging radiance, each grappling for supremacy. The reek of charred air filled Benjamin's nostrils, tears stinging his eyes as dust and magical discharge obscured everything.
The Itharim—those faint silhouettes shimmering at the edges—stretched bright columns of light toward Atty. The Attush's fur parted, black and torn, dissolving into swirling motes of pale luminescence. In its place, a shifting silhouette of pale white and silver took shape, every line etched by the synergy of mortal imagination and higher law.
Benjamin's chest burned as though a forge roared inside it, but he felt a triumphant note rising in his soul. It's working. By all the Maker's laws, it's working.
Malachros's howling reached an apex. "NO! You defy me with a creature that has no rightful place in this realm! You tear a hole in the tapestry!" Another wave of red lightning blasted from the hexahedron, pummeling the newly forming shape. Sparks flashed, and an inhuman shriek echoed—a mixture of pain and fledgling determination.
Benjamin nearly collapsed from the strain, yet the Itharim's presence fortified him, melodic chords that kept him on his feet, encouraging him to complete the metamorphosis. He clenched his jaw, his eyelids fluttering from exhaustion. "Atty… hold on," he whispered.
A swirl of energy battered them both, and the altar's dais cracked beneath the roiling powers. Chunks of stone toppled, some drifting ominously as if caught between conflicting gravities of light and dark. The mosaic behind them shattered from the center out, hundreds of shards raining like hail.
In that maelstrom, the silhouette at the center—where the Attush once lay—grew. Four powerful limbs elongated, each foot sporting deadly claws. Large wings arched from the shoulders, fanning out in a swirl of shimmering feathers that sparkled like stardust. The head, proud and avian, snapped open a newly formed beak, unleashing a piercing cry that cut through Malachros's wail.
Benjamin felt the shard's hold on him falter. The last of the darkness receded from his limbs, pulled away to focus on the emergent threat. Panting, he fell to one knee, trying desperately to remain conscious. His mind reeled from the magnitude of the mystical forces swirling around them.
Malachros's voice rattled the hall. "A vile abomination!". But there was a tremor beneath the bravado, as if the rebellious Itharim fragment had not anticipated this outcome.
Benjamin coughed, tasting dust and blood. He lifted his head, struggling to see through the glare. Standing in the beam of hazy, otherworldly light was the shape he had imagined: half-lion, half-eagle, a creature of regal power and primal grace. Its feathers shimmered with an opalescent sheen, and its leonine body rippled with subtle arcs of energy. The newborn's breath came in ragged huffs, as though adjusting to its new existence.
A hush stole over the hall in that instant—like the calm center of a cataclysmic storm. Stone and dust still rained from above, but somehow, that majestic form stood untouched, wings partially spread in a protective stance. Something deep in Benjamin's chest stirred: awe, relief, and an indescribable sense of destiny.
He didn't know if Atty's consciousness persisted in this new shape, or if it was some hybrid of Itharim grace and the Attush's devotion. But in his heart, he felt a flicker of recognition, like a resonance across a quiet distance. The creature's eyes, once golden, now glowed with an otherworldly emerald hue, flecks of silver dancing within them.
Its beak parted, releasing a low, resonant rumble that reverberated through broken pillars and shattered tiles. Malachros's presence hovered in the swirling darkness near the altar, an amorphous shape caged by spidery arcs of luminous wards.
Benjamin forced himself upright, ignoring the stabbing pain in his ribs. The monstrous power that had nearly claimed him recoiled from the gryphon's presence. The rebellious shard of Malachros might still be potent, but for the moment, it was no longer unstoppable.
A final piece of stone tumbled from the ceiling, hitting the ground with a crash. The gargantuan corridor, once steeped in gloom, now glowed with an aura that stemmed from this new being's mere existence. It was like a clarion call of unknown possibility—an aspect of creation Khial had never witnessed.
Benjamin drew a shaky breath, bracing for what came next. He could feel the hatred pouring off the hexahedron shard, the mounting tension, the readiness for violence. Everything in the hall, from the cracked pillars to the swirling dust in the air, waited on the edge of a blade.
The newly formed gryphon stamped a clawed paw on the stone, meeting Malachros's swirling presence with an unflinching gaze. A wave of shimmering light radiated outward, pushing back the corruption. Then the creature lifted its gaze, glancing briefly at Benjamin, as if acknowledging him in gratitude or recognition.
There was no time to speak, no moment for heartfelt reunion. The hall trembled once more—another quake from the dark energies, or the dungeon's failing structure, or both. Malachros's swirl of black-red essence solidified, no longer content to hide. It snarled, crackling arcs of electricity coursing through the gloom, preparing to strike.
Benjamin inhaled, tightening his fists. The same unwavering look burned in the gryphon's eyes—a shared acceptance of the fight about to commence, a refusal to let the rebellion of Malachros overshadow Khial's fragile balance.
Next time, Benjamin thought, determination coursing through him, we stand as one.
And with that final vow echoing in his mind, the creature fully unfurled its majestic wings, shining in the half-ruined hall like a symbol of hope forged from the synergy of mortal will and Itharim grace.