They rode through silence.
Not the silence of peace, nor that of rest—but the oppressive hush that fell over a world holding its breath. Lirien called it the Solemn Veil, the air between continents where sound retreated and even birds dared not cry. It was the prelude to the Nythran Spine—a range of ancient mountains wrapped in storms and sealed by pact and fear.
No map charted their paths.
No scripture named their peaks.
Even the Accord, in its time, had chosen not to conquer the Spine. It was not because it could not—but because the cost of entry was always too high.
Still, they rode.
Haraza's Helm pulsed as they approached, the third glyph now thrumming with a low vibration in his spine. Unlike the previous seals, which had revealed themselves through symbols and trials, the fourth did not beckon.
It warned.
Lirien dismounted at the threshold of the stormline, where the air turned brittle and the grass curled under invisible pressure.
("This place has its own memory,") she said, staring into the clouds. ("The mountains remember their killers. And they mourn in lightning.")
Haraza didn't reply. He simply stepped forward.
The storm hit them like a curtain of weightless stone. Not wet, not cold—just dense. The sky here had turned violet-black, a swirling bruised canopy that pulsed to an unseen rhythm.
And within the Nythran Spine, time broke again.
Not in flashes like in the Mirror.
But slowly.
Deliberately.
The world ahead moved slower than the world behind. His footsteps fell in sync with Lirien's, but their echoes returned at different moments, staggered, as if the mountain chose which memories to return.
The first ridge took them three hours to climb.
But when they reached the peak, the sun had not moved.
("Temporal slippage,") Lirien murmured. ("The Spine's way of reminding us it doesn't belong to our world.")
Haraza glanced at the Helm, but the glyphs offered no translation. This place wasn't Rift-born—but something older. Something that the Rift feared.
They descended into a valley laced with crystalized bones—creatures too alien for names. Some had wings made of folded geometry. Others bled still, centuries after death. One creature opened its eyes as they passed and whispered a single word in a tongue that made Haraza's mind shudder.
("Velthora.")
Lirien stopped dead.
("What did it say?") Haraza asked.
She didn't answer at first.
Then: ("A name. One that should not be spoken aloud.")
("You know it?")
("I know of it,") she said. ("She was the one who built the fourth seal.")
The valley led to a gate.
Not built—but grown from fused obsidian and root, towering fifty feet high and sealed by a wheel of shifting sigils. They glowed with erratic pulses—sometimes fire, sometimes shadow, sometimes void.
In the center of the gate was a mirror of a different kind.
Not a reflection—but a recording.
A memory.
And as Haraza touched it, it played.
Not for the eyes—but for the soul.
He stood in the body of another.
Not a man.
Not a beast.
But a being made of shape and voice—a singer, as the Accord had once called them. Velthora.
She stood at the summit of the Spine, arms outstretched, calling down storms with a voice made of thunder.
And around her, twelve beings stood. Faceless, cloaked in mirrored light.
They watched as she raised her hands and split the sky.
("This seal is not to protect the world,") she said. ("It is to remind it.")
("Of what?") one of the twelve asked.
("That even gods can forget.")
With a scream of sorrow, she wove her essence into the gate.
And sealed it shut.
Haraza stumbled backward as the memory ended, gasping.
Lirien knelt beside him. ("You saw her.")
("I was her,") he said. ("Just for a moment. She wasn't like the rest.")(
("No,") Lirien agreed. ("She was worse. Because she knew what she was doing. And still chose to do it.")
The gate now pulsed in recognition.
It didn't open. It didn't swing.
It simply ceased to be.
Vanished into light.
And beyond it, the path grew stranger.
The fourth seal was buried in a cavern that did not follow space.
Each step deeper into the mountain looped upward.
Every torch they lit burned colder.
Words they spoke echoed before they were said.
And at the heart of the cavern lay a sphere—not of stone or magic—but emotion. Suspended in the air, swirling with colors not found in any palette: grief-blue, joy-gold, dread-silver.
This was the Seal of Memory.
Not of what had happened—but what had been forgotten.
And to break it…
One must remember.
The Helm offered no guidance here. Its glyphs flickered, uncertain.
Lirien stood back, arms folded.
("This is your trial.")
("What does it want?") Haraza asked.
She looked at him, eyes cold.
("It wants the memory you fear the most.")
He didn't hesitate.
He stepped forward, heart pounding.
The sphere pulsed.
And dragged him inside.
He was in his old apartment again.
Back on Earth.
But it wasn't his real one—it was his memory of it. Cracked wallpaper. Overflowing bookshelves. A broken clock stuck at 3:17 a.m.
The Rift hadn't come yet.
But it was close.
He heard footsteps down the hall. Familiar.
Too familiar.
Then the door opened—and his sister walked in.
Aiko.
Alive.
Whole.
Unbroken.
Haraza's breath caught in his throat. This wasn't an illusion. It wasn't a trick. The seal had taken his memory—the real one—the last time he had seen her before the world took her.
She smiled.
("You left,") she said.
("I didn't mean to,") he whispered.
("You didn't come back.")
("I couldn't.")
("That's not the same thing.")
He knelt.
("I tried, Aiko. I tried every path. I screamed into the Rift. I gave up my name. But the world wouldn't bend.")
She touched his face.
Soft. Warm.
("I know,") she said.
Then she turned.
Walked into the light.
And was gone.
Haraza returned to the chamber, knees buckling. The seal had been his guilt. It had demanded truth—not of words, but of heart.
And he had given it.
The sphere cracked, then dissolved.
And with it, the fourth glyph ignited.
Brighter than the rest.
Etched now into the bones of the world.
Outside, the storm broke.
Not with violence—but with silence. The kind that comes after a funeral. Lirien stood at the edge of the cliff, watching the last clouds unravel.
("You carry it well,") she said.
("I don't want to carry it,") he replied.
("But you must.")
He turned to her. ("How many more seals?")
("Eight.")
("Eight more burdens.")
Lirien nodded.
("Then we'd best start walking.")