By morning, the forest had grown still again.
They left the grove behind as fog clung low to the ground, curling around Haraza's boots like questioning fingers. The forge-wrench pulsed faintly, almost eager—he kept it wrapped in cloth now, not out of fear but reverence. Every time he touched it, he felt something stir in the back of his mind—familiarity.
As they walked, Lyssira kept glancing at the horizon.
("There's something ahead," she finally said. "Something broken. Something… important.")
He followed her gaze.
Jagged ruins pierced the skyline like rib bones from the earth. Towering spires bent in impossible shapes. The air shimmered above the ruins as if time itself warped around them.
("Karthwyn," )she said. ("Once the heart of this world. Now, just echoes.")
They crossed a fallen gate of obsidian. Carvings along it showed strange figures—half-human, half-idea—wearing crowns made of flame, bone, and storm. All of them were kneeling before a single being: a shadow without features.
Haraza paused. ("That figure in the center—")
Lyssira nodded grimly.("That's the Unnamed Sovereign. The first one who ever tried to rewrite the Loom.")
("And what happened to them?")
("No one knows. But the moment they vanished, Karthwyn fell.")
They walked through a city that once ruled all Threads. Buildings floated sideways. Roads changed beneath their feet. Time warped and folded like a crumpled map.
Here, Haraza heard whispers again.
Not of trees. Not of Riftborn.
But of people.
Of lives.
Of memories.
They made camp in what might have once been a cathedral. The stained glass was shattered, but the light still refracted unnaturally—casting colors that didn't exist on Earth.
Lyssira sat across the fire, her eyes distant.
("I was born in a world of steel," she said quietly. "War was all I knew. I was a weapon before I was a girl.")
Haraza said nothing.
("They pulled me through the Rift when I was ten. Told me I had value. That I could fix things here. But all they wanted was a tool. I ran.")
Her voice trembled.
("I spent years hiding in ruins like these. Listening to memories. Piecing myself back together. That's why I fight—for those who don't get to choose.")
Haraza stared into the fire.( "And me? Why am I here?")
She looked up.
("I think… because you're the first one who wasn't summoned to be used. You're here to change the rules.")
Later that night, Haraza wandered.
The ruins whispered louder here—memories bleeding from stone. He followed them into a cracked throne chamber.
At its center: a broken seat of silver and bone.
As he approached, his wrench pulsed again.
And the air fractured.
A memory overtook him—not of this world, but of Earth.
He stood in a garage. Dim light. Old music. His father's voice behind him, guiding his hand.
("Not everything's worth fixing, son. But you should know how to try.")
Haraza's breath caught.
Then—another flash.
A tall figure in armor knelt before the same throne. The figure lifted a helm.
The face beneath it—
His own.
Older. Hardened.
And behind him, the Tetherless, smiling.
Then—
Darkness.
He awoke in the rubble.
Lyssira knelt beside him, blade drawn. ("You vanished.")
("I saw myself," he said. "Here. In this place. Like I'd lived a life I hadn't yet.")
She exhaled slowly. ("You touched a deep Echo. That means Karthwyn remembers you.")
("But that can't be. I've never been here before.")
("Time in Eltherra doesn't care what's linear.")
Haraza rose.
Something had changed.
He knew he was supposed to be here.
The wrench didn't hum—it sang. Low and steady.
He turned to Lyssira.
("There's more here. A memory hidden under memory.")
She narrowed her eyes. ("Then let's dig.")
They found a hidden stairwell beneath the throne. Stone gave way to metal. Ancient circuitry pulsed faintly in the walls—magic fused with machines, an impossible hybrid of tech and spellwork.
At the bottom, a door stood sealed by five glyphs.
One glowed faintly.
The others were dark.
Lyssira touched it. ("This is a Vault of the Shattered Order. Each glyph is a memory key.")
("And how do we find them?")
She turned to him.("We don't. You do.")
Haraza stepped forward.
The moment his fingers touched the center glyph, a blast of light engulfed the chamber.
He stood in a desert now.
Suns overhead.
Around him, ruins of another world—machines buried in sand, and towers eaten by time.
And in the distance: a child, no older than seven, holding a wrench too big for his hands.
Haraza recognized him.
It was himself.
But not from Earth.
This was another life.
Another beginning.
And from the dunes emerged a whisper:("You were forged. Reborn. Twice before.")
Then everything turned to sand—
And the glyph burned with light.
One of the five keys had awakened.