Days passed. The suns of Eonum rose and set, painting the sky in shades of gold and purple, but the landscape around us grew increasingly harsh. The plains gave way to rolling sand dunes, which seemed to be formed not from crumbling rocks, but from the dust of forgotten dreams. The wind, which once carried the scent of the earth, now whispered dry, empty words, weaving into the corners of my mind. This was the Sand of Oblivion. I felt each grain attempting to absorb a fragment of my recovered memory.
The Collector walked steadfastly, his clay feet sinking into the sand, but leaving no clear tracks. He himself seemed immune to the effects of the Sand of Oblivion, though sometimes I saw his clay shimmer slightly, as if absorbing from the environment not only physical grains, but also echoes of decay. His silence was now more than a lack of speech; it was an act of will, a conscious barrier against chaos. My Book of Signs pulsed in my heart, but its knowledge was selective. I discerned maps that indicated direction, but the details were blurred, as if certain fragments of Eonum were deliberately hidden or impossible to read in my current form. I felt that I was constantly generating new, pure Echo crystals, which the Collector patiently collected. They were like renewed pages of the Book, being rewritten. It was a slow, but continuous process.
Deep within my mind, the Prime Echo still pulsed. It was like a black hole that simultaneously attracted and repelled. Its contradictory nature was a source of constant tension, like a tearing wound that never healed. The words with the scars, the ones that warned against the Soul Foundry, still echoed in my thoughts. "More lies. More oblivion." Was this whole journey an illusion? Was the Truth I sought merely another lie, crafted by the Architect to lure me in?
One afternoon, as the suns dipped towards the horizon, we saw it. A city. It was a city built of sand, or rather, of matter that had once been a city, and was now consumed by time and Erasure. Its contours were soft, blurred, as if swaying in the hot air. Gigantic, spiral towers, similar to the stones we had seen earlier, rose skyward, but their peaks were invisible, swallowed by the Sand of Oblivion. There were no visible signs of life, no movement, only an absolute, whispering silence. "This is... the Lost City of Memories," I whispered, the Book of Signs supplying me with the name. "A place where memory dies slowest." This was one of those Places of Power the Wanderer stones spoke of. A place where vast amounts of knowledge and Archetypes were once stored. But now it was only a shadow of its former self.
I approached, and the Collector followed me. As we entered the city, I felt it. The Sand of Oblivion grew denser, almost palpable. My memories began to crack. Images from last night—the Architect's Shadow, the faces of the Whisperers—began to blur. Even the Architect of Oblivion's name, which I had recovered with such difficulty, became momentarily elusive, like water slipping through my fingers. I fell to my knees, clutching my head. It was like a return to the worst days of my madness, but now I was aware of the process. I knew I was losing. The Collector reacted immediately. His clay hands cupped my face, and his obsidian eye was fixed on mine. A faint, blue glow began to emanate from his body, enveloping both of us. These were the Echos. The crystals he had absorbed were now actively defending my memory, creating a barrier against the Sand of Oblivion. I felt the Collector's Echos fighting the Erasure, as the force of memory clashed with nothingness. It was pain, but the pain of struggle, not of surrender. Then, from deep within the city, I heard laughter. Dry, sandy, devoid of joy. And voices. "Oh, Archivist. Did you think you drove us away?" "Memory is a gift, isn't it? But also a curse." "We are here to finish what was started. The Sand of Oblivion is ours. As are you."
Silhouettes emerged from behind the spiral towers. These were not the same faces I had seen in the hut. These were more changed, their contours blurred by the Sand of Oblivion, as if they themselves were becoming part of what they fought. These were beings from the fringes of reality. The Void Whisperers. The woman I had met in the hut stepped forward. Her face was now almost entirely featureless, like a mask of sand, but her eyes, even in the Erasure, gleamed with cold intelligence. "Welcome back, Elaraith Vel'Shar," her voice was dry as sand, but clear. "Have you come for more Truth? But here... here Truth is a trap." She raised her hand, and sharp, spiral spikes grew from the sand around her, aiming directly at us. The Collector stood between me and her, his clay body trembling, and the blue glow of the Echos intensified. His stance was an act of pure, silent determination. The Soul Foundry seemed distant, shrouded in a fog of oblivion. The Lost City of Memories was a trap. And I was caught in it, with the Void Whisperers closing the circle, ready to absorb me into that whispering sand, taking everything I had left.