The moment I speak, the stone beneath us glows. Not with fire. Not with light. With *memory.*
The Vault's will—Vellidra's last breath—rises through the cracks of the city and wraps around the faceless rival.
He doesn't fight it.
He *welcomes* it.
Threads burst from his spine, not of fabric or bone, but ink-black intent. They stab into the ground, trying to root him deeper. The seal-holders reel back, shielding themselves. Fenn falters, blood on his lips. Nera's song cracks.
"Push!" I shout.
Stormlight coils around my arm like a serpent. I drive it forward with every name, every moment the Vault remembers.
The rival screams.
But it's not a voice.
It's *voices.*
Too many. Male. Female. Child. Old. All bound into one shape that never belonged to any of them. He wasn't just made from bones and thread.
He was made from *stolen selves.*
The mask he wears is thousands.
And now, they come *undone.*
Lira carves through the threads as they unravel. Branvel's flame doesn't burn—it *purifies.* Sov channels the Vault's rhythm, striking each pulse in time. Kett's threads don't pull—they *cut.*
The seal-holders move in sync.
The rival begins to lose shape.
He strikes back wildly, but it's not strategy anymore. It's desperation. Survival. A tangle of limbs and shadows.
I walk forward.
Through the storm.
Through the screams.
The ring hums—steady, calm.
I see the first soul unbind. A child, maybe twelve. Then a farmer. Then a guard. One by one, they flicker out of his form like candles catching wind.
The figure weakens. Trembles.
I stop an arm's length away.
"You stole their names," I say. "Now they take yours."
My hand lands on his chest.
The Vault answers.
The threads unravel.
All of them.
And in a final burst of silence, he *vanishes.*
Not killed.
*Released.*
The plaza falls still.
No more stormlight. No more shadows. Just the sound of breathing—ours.
Lira drops to her knees. Kett slumps against Branvel. Narth helps Nera stay upright. Fenn sits in stunned silence. Sov's eyes don't leave the place where the rival stood.
I lower my hand.
The ring dims.
The war isn't over.
But the shadow that started it?
Is no longer standing.