We rise into the wind tunnel, one by one.
The spiral of air doesn't pull us—it lifts us, like it recognizes the ring, the mask, and everything we've carried to this point. Above, daylight cracks through a hidden arch in the old district, miles from the plaza. When we emerge, the city feels *tilted.* Not broken. Not healed. Just… waiting.
Sov is the first to speak. "The Threadless are quiet."
"Too quiet," Lira mutters, checking the streets. "They're not retreating. They're coiling."
Jeral steps out behind her, his blade drawn already. "They know we've touched something they couldn't."
"They'll come for it," I say. "The mask. The new path."
"And what will you do with it?" Kett asks, gaze sharp. "Wear it? Or hide it again?"
I look down at the cracked, rune-covered mask still in my hand. It's not just a symbol. It's a *key.* A question.
And maybe a sentence.
I don't put it on. Not yet.
Instead, I raise it, and press it against the ring.
They click.
Not a mechanical sound—more like a heartbeat syncing with a memory. The ring glows once, then splits. A new seam opens in its band, revealing a thread inside that wasn't there before.
Black. Silver. Bone-white.
Vellidra's legacy. My future. Our war.
Branvel steps beside me. "The Threadless aren't waiting anymore."
In the distance, sirens cry.
Not warning bells. *Summons.*
Sov reads the moment. "They've chosen their battlefield."
"Where?" I ask.
He looks up, toward the northern ridge, where the Old Temple used to stand before it burned decades ago. "The Ash Spire."
Of course. A forgotten ruin. Full of silent echoes. A perfect place to rewrite something sacred.
"We leave now," I say.
Wren stops me with a touch. "And the mask?"
I finally lift it.
Feel its weight.
Not just wood and runes—*memory.* Choice.
I place it against my face.
It binds without force.
The runes flare. The wind stills.
And for a second, everything is quiet.
Then the voice returns. Not Vellidra. Not mine.
*The City's Will.*
*"One shall bear judgment. One shall carry memory. One shall be named."*
Kett whispers, "It's beginning again."
"No," I say, stepping forward as the air shifts.
"It's ending differently."