Date: February 12, 542 since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
The radiance emanating from the Giant Hawk began to slowly settle, turning into a thick golden suspension that gently settled on the shoulders of the wounded warriors. Silence reigned in the Central Nexus, so deep that the crackle of cooling stone and the heavy, ragged breaths of those who had recently craved each other's deaths were audible.
The words of the Shadow of Balance still echoed in everyone's consciousness, and this echo was bitter. The news that there was no Relic, that centuries of legends and months of preparation had led to an intangible "Place of Power," struck those present harder than any blade.
Baron Kaellen slowly lowered his sword, its tip still holding the golden gleam of his Spirit. His face, usually impeccably calm, now resembled a mask of cracked porcelain. "No Relic..." Kaellen's thought was filled with cold disappointment. "The Dynasty spent a fortune, we used disposable portals, we lost people... and all to hear a parable from a ghostly bird? My father awaited a weapon capable of dictating terms to the Adepts, and I will bring him only a story about a trial?" The Baron felt his energy, previously gathered into the perfect dome of the "Absolute Aegis," now dissipating aimlessly, finding no anchor in reality.
Legate Valerius, kneeling after being captured by Magnus's puppets, let out a hoarse, barking sound, half laugh, half cough. His rage, which had burned with black flame, gave way to devastation. Alvost always valued tangible results — steel, land, slaves. The idea of the "selectivity of power" seemed to him a mockery of the very essence of the warrior's path.
Mirza, leaning on his cleaver, gazed at the Hawk with grim respect. The Orc was the only Harbinger who did not look crushed. "A Place of Power..." Mirza wiped blood from his face. "That is more honest than a piece of metal. The Ancestors always said that true power cannot be stolen; it can only be earned. But who among us is worthy? I? A Harbinger whose path is littered with corpses? Or that arrogant Sylvan lying at the base?"
Arannis, lying closest to the Crystal, was the embodiment of ruin. His "Wind Soul Sacrifice" had left his Vessel nearly empty and his body on the verge of disintegration. He looked at the Hawk with eyes full of pain. Everything he believed in, all the exclusivity of his race, had been rejected by this indifferent guardian. He had reached it first, he had given everything... and was cast aside as an unsuitable element.
Grak Axe stood, leaning heavily on his axe haft. The Commander of the Order of Order felt no disappointment. Rather, it was a deep, weary understanding. "Balance. For centuries we called ourselves the Order of Order, but we only ever sought control," Grak glanced at his thirteen surviving knights. "The Temple is right. If we had received Zanra's weapon here, we would have simply become another force seeking to crush others. But if this is a Place of Power... then this world still has a chance for something beyond endless war."
Kaedan leaned against Olaf's shoulder, feeling his damaged Vessel greedily absorb the vibrations of the hall. His thoughts returned to the "Old Pine" shelter. The oaths sworn in childhood seemed so simple. But here, among the titans of the continent, the youth realized: their "Better World" required not just the strength to win, but the strength to endure verdicts.
"If there is no Relic... if this place itself chooses..." Kaedan looked at his broken basalt vambraces. "Then everything we went through was the path. The pain, the defeat by Mirza, the Chimera — these weren't mistakes. It was the process of weighing."
The youth shifted his gaze to Iskon. He stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the Hawk. On Iskon's face was neither disappointment nor shock. It was as if he had been waiting for this moment his entire life. His inner power, usually prickly and aggressive, was now absolutely quiet, resonating with the pulse of the Temple.
In the air of the Central Nexus, a hum began to build again. The Hawk spread its wings, and on its crystal-feathers, runes flared up that even the wisest Master of the Institute of the Carved Scroll could not read.
"Your silence is the beginning of awareness," the voice sounded again in the warriors' minds. "You have measured your worth in blood and steel. Now it is time for True Balance to measure you."
The light of the Crystal began to concentrate at a single point, turning into a dense beam that slowly, as if tasting the air, began to slide through the ranks of the assembled. Each person touched by this light felt their Vessel laid bare, revealing to the guardian all secrets, all sins, and all hopes. This was the moment of supreme judgment, and no one in this hall — neither Harbinger nor Initiate — could look away from this blinding search.