They traveled in silence.
The forest that stretched beyond the Spiral was untouched by time—boughs heavy with moss, trunks gnarled like the fingers of ancient beings. Every leaf shimmered faintly in the twilight haze, as though light here did not fall from above but radiated from the land itself.
Haraza moved with measured steps, his senses sharpened by the presence of the Origin Glyph. He could hear the heartbeat of the forest. The whisper of a breeze that never quite reached them. And deeper still, under the soil, he felt something stirring—like an echo from another time.
Lirien watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was quieter now, even for him. The Glyph had changed more than just his awareness—it had shifted something in his soul.
Finally, she broke the silence.
("You're holding back,") she said.
Haraza glanced at her. ("I don't want to break the world just by walking through it.")
Lirien frowned. ("That serious?")
He nodded. ("The Glyph is… attuned to creation itself. Every thought, every word—I have to be careful. I don't know the limits of it. And until I do…")
She looked ahead again. ("Then we find a way to understand it. We don't stop now.")
He smiled faintly. ("No. We can't afford to.")
They reached the edge of the forest by dusk. Before them sprawled a basin of crystalline lakes and spired ruins—remnants of a fallen age, their stone walls carved with stories in languages Haraza could now read without ever having studied them.
-"To the Gods That Were.
To the Truth That Broke.
To the Flame That Remembers."-
The glyphs resonated with the same hum as those in the Spiral—but they were fractured, incomplete. These had been abandoned before the Accord's golden age. Lost truths. Forbidden, perhaps.
Lirien crouched near one of the broken columns.
("I've seen this pattern before," she muttered, tracing a twisting arc of symbols with her finger. "In the Flame Monastery's deepest archives. This whole valley was part of the Sealed March.")_
Haraza narrowed his eyes. ("Where the first division happened.")
("Yes. Where the Accord turned on itself.")
He stepped deeper into the ruins, the Helm gleaming faintly. As he walked, the glyphs on the walls flickered to life behind him—recognizing something in his presence.
("We're being watched,") he said suddenly.
Lirien rose, hand on the hilt of her twin blades. ("From the Rift?")
Haraza shook his head. ("Closer.")
And then—
Figures appeared.
Not through portals, not by stealth—but simply stepped out from behind the walls, cloaked in silver-trimmed robes. Their faces bore mirrored masks. Their movements were fluid, inhumanly precise.
One stepped forward and removed its mask.
A woman. Eyes aglow with violet flame. A tattoo of a serpent biting its own tail encircled her throat.
("You have touched the Spiral,") she said.
Haraza stood firm. ("Who are you?")
("We are the Vox Caelestis,")she replied. ("The ones who speak what others fear to hear.")
Lirien tensed. ("Rift cult.")
The woman smiled, but not in amusement. ("Not cult. Not anymore. You made sure of that.")
She stepped closer, eyes locked on Haraza.
("The Origin Glyph. It's inside you. Singing in every breath you take.")
Haraza's voice was low. ("You came to take it?")
The woman shook her head.
("We came to warn you.")
A moment of silence stretched long and taut.
Haraza didn't lower his guard. ("Warn me of what?")
The woman's gaze darkened.
("The Rift stirs because you awakened something that should have remained forgotten. The Spiral was a lock, Genso. You've undone it.")
Lirien stepped between them. ("And now the monsters crawl out, is that it?")
("No,") the woman said softly. ("Now the keepers of the Rift awaken. The ones who were meant to ensure that no mortal ever reached the Glyph. The ones who failed—and now seek to remake what you have undone.")
Haraza's fingers curled.
("Let them come.")
The Vox Caelestis envoy tilted her head. ("You misunderstand. They are not coming to fight you. They are coming to replace you.")
A wind howled through the basin.
The sky dimmed.
And from the high cliffs encircling the ruins—they arrived.
Seven figures.
Each one cloaked in riftlight, their bodies hazy, flickering like unfinished thoughts. They bore no weapons—but power radiated from them in waves so intense the ground beneath them cracked and bled silver dust.
One stepped forward. Its voice was layered, male and female, young and ancient.
("We are the Scribes of Undoing.")
Haraza and Lirien stood back to back now, eyes scanning.
("You claim what was not meant for you," the Scribe said. "The Origin Glyph belongs to the First Accord. It must return.")
("I didn't take it,") Haraza said evenly. ("It chose me.")
("And it chose poorly.")
The Scribes raised their hands.
Riftlight arced like lightning.
The battle began.
Haraza raised the Helm, glyphs flaring from its edges. Lirien launched into the air, blades drawn, her cloak snapping behind her like flame.
The Vox Caelestis fled into shadow.
Haraza moved with speed born not of muscle, but of clarity. He understood the movements of his enemies before they made them. Saw the angles of their strikes, the folds of their intent.
He struck the air with a gesture—and bent it.
One Scribe staggered, caught in a sudden twist of gravity. Lirien's blade found its mark, severing the creature's form with a burst of violet flame.
They didn't bleed.
They simply unraveled.
Another lunged—its hand turning into a serpent of pure rift-energy. Haraza countered by pulling the runes from a nearby ruin, forming a wall of forgotten text that halted the blow.
Each move was poetry.
A dance of will and wisdom.
But the Scribes were relentless.
Haraza was slowing.
The Glyph burned brighter in his chest with each exertion.
Too bright.
And then—
A final voice echoed from the Rift.
Not a Scribe.
Not a cultist.
But something older.
Something watching.
("Haraza Genso.")
("You are the crack in the seal. The thorn in the remnant.")
("You are not the end. But you are the opening.")
A great shadow passed overhead.
Lirien looked up and froze.
So did the Scribes.
So did the wind itself.
Through the fissure in the sky, something began to descend.
Vast.
Coiled.
A shape older than dragons. Older than Accord. Older than memory.
Its eyes opened across the heavens.
And every living thing felt it:
The Waking of the Rift.
Haraza collapsed to one knee, clutching his chest. The Glyph inside him wasn't just burning—it was resonating. Responding to the presence above. Not with fear. Not with resistance.
But with recognition.
The Scribes fell to their knees.
Lirien dropped beside Haraza, shouting his name—but her voice was lost to the wind.
The sky broke open.
A thousand glyphs of unknown language circled the great shadow, whispering promises that none could understand and all would obey.
Haraza lifted his head.
And the Rift spoke again.
("Twelve will awaken.")
("Six will burn.")
("One will choose.")
Then—silence.
The Rift closed.
The shadow was gone.
But the mark it left behind would never fade.
When Haraza finally stood, the Glyph inside him pulsed once more—calm now. Awaiting. Listening.
He turned to Lirien.
("We need to gather the others,") he said.
She nodded, still pale. ("The Rift isn't a door anymore.")
("No,") he said grimly. ("It's a mirror.")