Ozymandias
Objective IV | Axis Mundi
Tython
Blizzard skies parted only long enough for descent craft to pierce the cloud deck and behold the Rusted Spire—a needle of oxidized alloy plunging out of the ice cap like a planetary rivet. Scouring winds keened through petrified buttresses, carrying flakes of red oxide that stained snowscape and visor alike. Sensors spun wild: gravity readings slid from lunar‑low to crushing high in heartbeat spikes, and magnetic compasses corkscrewed into nonsense. The Spire’s own latent vergence repelled straight‑line landings; pilots were forced to belly‑skid across an icy shelf that cracked like glass beneath repulsor shockwaves.
Entry was a yawning breach where past prospectors had plasma‑cut the outer shell before disappearing. Inside, walls of weathered durasteel warped into a spiral passage that turned endlessly inward, rotating round a central gyroscope the size of a gunship. Its rings spun at blistering speed—molten streaks that cast strobing shadows across walkways. Dust cascaded up, down, sideways; footing shifted as gravity re‑wrote allegiance every dozen meters. Expedition members clipped safety tethers to handrails that might be ceiling in the next step.
Three equidistant archways loomed at the first major junction, each throat washed in alien luminance:
- Ashen Gold—corridor smooth, walls engraved with mantras of mercy and absolution.
- Midnight Violet—passage lit by violent crackles where engraved sigils bled Dark‑side static.
- Verdant Teal—a flickering hybrid path where glyphs of Light and Dark fought for space like competing lianas.
Challenges mounted: Light corridor presented “mercy puzzles” where saving an illusory prisoner cost precious minutes of shifting grav‑cycle; Dark corridor spawned alchemic guardians that rewarded brutality but devoured the faint‑hearted; Balance corridor forced pairs to traverse zero‑G chasms by exchanging counterweighted tether‑lines in perfect coordination. Only simultaneous solutions would unlock the next coil of the spiral. Fail, and the gyroscope rang like a colossal gong, resetting every solved mechanism two turns back.
Deep within the core lay the immobile Axis Loom—a rust‑clotted lattice of Celestial gyros frozen at a crooked tilt. Stasis energy emanated from it in temporal ripples that eroded personal memories: a name forgotten, a loyalty blurred, an oath half‑remembered. Re‑aligning the Loom (tilt precisely twenty‑nine degrees, thirteen minutes) promised dominion over local spacetime for a single hour—long enough to sync or sabotage Calladene’s faulty gear. But the recalibration demanded the simultaneous insertion of Light, Dark, and Balance crystals retrieved from each corridor apex. Sabotage one path—or betray its bearer—and the Loom would seize, freezing reality here and perhaps across far‑flung lanes for who‑knew how long.
As tri‑comms crackled with half‑intelligible status reports, the gyroscope’s rings began to slow—first time in millennia. Dust changed direction mid‑air. Somewhere above, the blizzard ceased, and an unseen choir whispered once more: “Turn the loom, mend the dawn… or let the axle snap.” Teams tightened grips on lost memories and stepped toward the final lock, knowing the choice ahead would set the Galaxy’s clock—or shatter its face forever.
