The Sand of Oblivion swirled around us, becoming a wall that cut us off from the rest of the ruined city. Spiral spikes erupted from the ground, blades of sand, hurtling towards us. The Collector, my clay protector, stood unmoving. His intense blue glow surrounded us like a shield, and every spike that touched this barrier disintegrated into brighter, whispering particles, which the Collector, in turn, attempted to absorb. This was a battle for the Echos.
The Void Whisperers, their silhouettes blurred and distorted by the sand consuming them, closed the circle. Their voices, dry and hollow, formed a cacophony. "Memory is poison, Archivist!" one of them screamed, his words seeming to crack in the air. "We bring purification! Oblivion is the only path to peace!" The woman, the one with the almost expressionless sand-face, raised both hands. Ethereal, distorted shapes began to form from the sand around us. They were outlines of past memories: flickering silhouettes of Wanderers, fragments of ancient structures, echoes of battles. Sand illusions, meant to surround and disorient us, to sow doubt in my mind. "Do not trust the clay... Memory is a gift... Oblivion is... the only path..." These whispers, which I had heard before from the stones, now resonated from the Sand of Oblivion, trying to deafen me, to destroy my newly regained clarity.
I felt the Sand of Oblivion trying to penetrate every corner of my consciousness, blurring names, places, and even the Collector's face. It was terrifying, for I knew that if I surrendered to it, everything would be lost. But the Book of Signs in my chest pulsed stronger, reacting to the threat. I clenched my hand, the one with the pulsating symbol. I could not let them defeat me. I had to fight. Not just for myself, but for the Book, for the Echos, for every forgotten truth. I raised my hand, aiming at one of the sand spikes that was approaching dangerously. The blue glow from my hand flared more intensely, and I felt a surge of energy. I imagined. I imagined a fracture. Not a physical fracture, but a fracture in the very concept of oblivion. The sand spike did not shatter. It... blurred. As if its existence was momentarily negated. Then it vanished. Completely. Leaving only relief in my head. The Whisperers, even those with blurred faces, flinched. Their expressionless visages showed surprise. My abilities were developing.
"This isn't just the truth I've recovered," I whispered to the Collector, my voice like a newly discovered sword. "This is the Truth I can shape." The Golem scraped, and his glow became even brighter. He seemed to understand. I focused on the Whisperers. I had to stop them. Their whispers were like poison, and their presence only intensified the effect of the Sand of Oblivion. I extended both hands. From the Book of Signs, from the deepest recesses of my memory, I began to draw forth not Echos, but ancient seals of silence. Seals that the Wanderers used to close portals to the Void, to subdue chaotic energies, to isolate memories. From my hands, from the blue glow, invisible barriers began to form. They were not physical barriers, but conceptual barriers, meant to silence the whispers, to stifle the decay. The Whisperers roared in irritation. Their voices, which had previously been a cacophony, now became muffled. The Sand of Oblivion that created their illusions began to disintegrate around them, as if their own weapon was turning against them. The woman with the sand-face recoiled. Her cold eyes looked at me with a mixture of shock and... almost fear. "Seals... of silence," she whispered, her voice now faint and distorted. "He... he remembers! He remembers how to pacify the Void!"
I gathered all my strength. I saw in the Book of Signs something that was more than a memory—it was a command. To open the way. Through chaos. I focused on the Sand of Oblivion. Not on fighting it, but on redirecting it. On making it a path, not a barrier. My symbol on my hand flared, and blue light burst from my palm, absorbing into the swirling sand. The sand did not vanish. It changed. Its distorting whispers gave way to a quiet, almost meditative melody. The sand began to arrange itself into swirling spirals, forming a path. A path that wound through the Lost City of Memories, leading us directly to its heart. It was a path the Whisperers could not touch, because I had created it, using the Truth of the Book of Signs.
The Whisperers watched us in disbelief, trapped in their own muffled chaos. The woman with the sand-face recoiled even further, almost dissolving into the background. "This is not possible..." I heard her last whisper. "No Archivist has ever been... like this..." The Collector, with his unwavering, clay presence, followed me. His glow still shielded me, but now it was no longer a barrier, but a guide. We walked through the Lost City of Memories, on a path of dancing sand. In the distance, through the swirling dust, I saw the massive, rusted gates. The Soul Foundry.
The battle for the Sand was won, but I knew this was just the beginning. The forces of the Architect and the Void Whisperers were powerful, and I had only just regained my memory. But I had a new power. The power to shape Truth. And I had the Collector. And I had the Prime Echo, which, though still a mystery to me, waited deep within my companion's clay heart. The approaching doors of the Soul Foundry now seemed both a promise and an ultimate trap.