They came down the Nythran Spine as dusk began to thread crimson through the clouds, and for the first time in days, the weight of the seals did not press down on Haraza's shoulders like iron. It wasn't relief. It wasn't victory. It was something quieter—a space within him that hadn't existed before. A hollowed chamber carved by pain, filled not with regret, but clarity.
The fourth seal had changed him.
Not with power, but with truth.
The others had forced him to act. This one had forced him to remember.
Now, as he and Lirien descended into the basin of Uryan's Fold—a place once lost to both time and map—he felt the seals inside him not as burdens, but as instruments of resonance. Like distant bells whose tones only he could hear.
And far ahead, something answered.
A tremor in the Helm.
A pulse in the air.
The Accord had awakened.
They made camp at the edge of an overgrown ruin, half-swallowed by trees that bore no leaves, only white blossoms that hummed softly in the night. Haraza knew instinctively that this place was a remnant of a bygone time, a prelude to what the Accord had once been before it grew into war and authority.
The structures here were round, open to the sky.
Not fortresses.
Sanctuaries.
And etched across the stones in countless languages—many long dead—was a single phrase:
("Unity before self. Balance before dominance. Memory before command.")
He traced the words with his fingertips.
The Helm responded with warmth.
("This was one of the first Accord citadels,") Lirien said behind him. ("Before the Twelve were chosen. When their purpose was still… honest.")
("Why abandon it?") Haraza asked.
("Because honesty doesn't build empires.")
He looked at her—really looked. Not just at the armor or her scars, but at the way she held herself. She was no longer just his guide or protector. She had become a mirror of sorts, forged by the same pain, shaped by the same truths.
("What did you give up for the Accord?") he asked.
Lirien didn't answer for a long time.
( "A child.")
Haraza blinked.
("I never had one,") she continued. ("But I was supposed to. A life outside the oaths. I was promised freedom when the wars ended. But the wars never do.")
("And you stayed.")
("I had to. Someone has to watch the seals. Someone has to remember why we placed them in the first place.")
Haraza sat beside her.
And for a moment, no words were needed.
That night, Haraza dreamed of the Rift.
Not the chaotic hunger that had devoured his old world—but something deeper, more ancient. A source beyond comprehension. A well of potential and identity, from which all reality was drawn and molded.
He stood at its edge, watching as entire timelines were born and unmade like strands of silk woven by invisible hands.
And then… he saw them.
The Twelve.
The original architects of the Accord.
Not as rulers.
Not as tyrants.
But as witnesses.
They knelt before the Rift, their heads bowed, each one touching the ground with a different artifact: a blade, a crown, a flame, a mask, a seed, a stone, a mirror, a book, a chain, a key, a song, and a tear.
Each artifact resonated with a seal.
Each one tied to the laws of their world.
And behind them, something stirred.
A thirteenth presence.
Unformed.
Watching.
Waiting.
Then a voice, quiet and absolute, whispered into his mind.
("When the Twelve forget, the Thirteenth remembers.")
Haraza awoke with the word still on his lips.
("Thirteenth.")
At dawn, the world began to shift again.
Lirien roused him with urgency. ("Something's wrong.")
Haraza stood, instinct already on fire. The glyphs behind his eyes pulsed not with guidance—but with alarm.
He looked up.
And saw the sky break.
A crack had formed—not in the Rift, but in the fabric of the heavens. A rippling seam of light and void, through which stars bled and vanished like snow in flame.
And from it descended a figure.
Cloaked in starlight.
Faceless. Formless.
But Haraza knew them.
The Thirteenth.
Not one of the Accord.
Not one of the world.
But a reminder.
A failsafe.
It hovered above the ruins, voice echoing without sound.
("The seals are breaking too fast.")
Haraza stepped forward. ("They have to. The Rift is accelerating.")
("You are not ready.")
("I wasn't ready to be torn from my world either,") he snapped. ("But here I am.")
The Thirteenth descended, now taking shape—mirroring Haraza's own form.
("Then you must understand: the seals are not meant to be opened. They are meant to be balanced.")
("I don't follow.")
The Thirteenth extended a hand.
("Let me show you.")
In an instant, Haraza's mind was cast across the lattice of worlds.
He saw the Accord not as a pantheon—but as a system. Each seal wasn't a key, but a counterweight. Every time one was broken, the balance shifted. Not toward freedom or control—but toward instability.
Too many opened too quickly…
And the Rift would return, not as an invader—but as a response.
("The Rift is not evil,") the Thirteenth said. ("It is the echo of unbound potential. You are not unlocking the world. You are detuning it.")
("Then what am I supposed to do?")
*"Reforging the Accord is not about reclaiming power. It is about remembering why it was made.")
Haraza staggered back into his body.
The Thirteenth hovered, waiting.
Then:( "There is one who still remembers. One who never forgot. Find the Warden of Thorns.")
Lirien stiffened at the name.
("She's still alive?")
The Thirteenth faded.
And the sky stitched itself shut.
They left that same hour.
The path now led east, through the Bramble Reaches, a living maze of vines, rotwood, and song-eaters. A land where even sound was taxed, and names were considered a currency of the soul.
Haraza's grip on the Helm tightened as they entered the fringe.
And behind him, the glyphs pulsed not in alarm…
…but in anticipation.
The next seal wasn't merely waiting.
It was listening.